


Legends: Of the Sky

by Eisen



Series: The Next Cycle [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Mass Effect
Genre: AU, Cameos, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, Grey Wardens, Kicking in doors, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Mass Effect 3, Reminiscing, Rusty Hinges, Sci-Fi, Synthesis Ending, Warning Lights, cross-over, dragon effect, x-over
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 13:03:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3811525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen/pseuds/Eisen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had to make a choice - and prayed that fulfilling the Reaper's ultimate purpose would prevent anything like them from ever casting a shadow over life again. But nothing is ever that simple.</p><p>A far-off world becomes a beacon to what is left of her consciousness after becoming a universal blueprint. She is presented with a new world, unlike anything she's dealt with before; she knows she's a survivor, but now lacks the one thing she's always had: a goal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Observer

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Stars Fade](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/140792) by totallybursar. 
  * Inspired by [Keep to the Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651176) by [MaryDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryDragon/pseuds/MaryDragon). 
  * Inspired by [Will to Live](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6063355) by [MaryDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryDragon/pseuds/MaryDragon). 



> Legends of the Sky is a Mass Effect and Dragon Age Fanfiction Crossover by Eisen. Mass Effect and Dragon Age belong to Bioware.
> 
> I am forever indebted to [coffeeguru](http://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeguru/pseuds/coffeeguru) for her willingness to edit my work.
> 
> Also, my thanks to:  
> [MaryDragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryDragon), for constantly being _the_ best fic writer in existence.  
> [Caek](http://grimmcake.tumblr.com/), [Doodles](http://dissatisfied-doodles.tumblr.com/), [Alyx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/therutherfordwife/pseuds/therutherfordwife), [Aelie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelie/pseuds/aelie) and [Chant](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chanterie) for being cool friends and everything that is good about a fandom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter reworked and updated on 01 March 2016.
> 
> To those Dragon Age fans showing up here, who aren't familiar with Mass Effect, this first chapter might make more sense after reading my short summary [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6807631/chapters/15544804).

  
Cover art by the glorious [grimmcake](grimmcake.tumblr.com).

###### 

Commander Eris Shepard was running.

What felt like every fiber of her being protested at the exertion; a cacophony of aches as muscles strained despite having passed the threshold of endurance hours ago. But now more was being demanded of them, so they delivered, if weakly.

She buried the pain, repeating the mantra that the Drill Sergeant had, well,  _ drilled _ into them in training.  _ It’s only pain. It’s only pain. It’s only pain _ . One foot in front of the other, one step at a time. Ignore the lie that is the body’s perception of its limits.

A shuffle became a stagger; a stagger a shaky lope, picking up more and more momentum as she went until it felt more like she was falling, if not for the constant spike of straining pain that was a leg pushing her up again. One limb barely managed to push off before the other needed to do the same, but she managed, somehow. Somehow she remained upright, somehow she kept moving.

_ “Shepard, you are a peacemaker.” _

Those were the words he had used. Oh, how she wished now that those words had been a lie. Oh, how she wished that for once he would have been dead wrong - if not for her sake, for his. It was not as if she  _ tried _ to be the antithesis of her own given name. Not now, after all the illusions had been torn away. But now she was bound on this path, a path duty had laid out before her, a path the galaxy demanded of her after all the lives that had been lost.

The edge drew ever nearer, the impossibly bright blue-white beam growing larger until it swallowed her entire vision. The only thing left was the path stretching out before her where the Citadel swallowed the Crucible’s energy.

The Catalyst - the Intelligence...whatever it was - watched her progress from where it had halted after explaining the choices ahead. Choices that once again  _ she _ had to make while the ethereal child-like apparition patiently stood. As unfazed by the unfathomable changes about to take place as only a machine could be.

Shepard reached the edge. 

Where one would have expected a graceful image, befitting of the greatest accomplishment in untold millennia, the fruit of countless civilizations’ greatests minds’ most desperate efforts, one instead got exhausted floundering. Even if she had wanted to, the First Human Spectre no longer had the strength to halt her momentum, doing her utmost not to collapse to the polished metal surface.

Tapping into reserves she did not know she had, she pushed herself forward one last time, towards the light, towards the galaxy’s salvation, towards her end, towards peace.

Falling, Shepard felt the beam envelop her - felt the warm glow of the Crucible’s energy suffuse her, its caress as it consumed her.

Her skin charred and peeled away as the very matter of her existence drifted apart. Her cybernetics flared, sending a wicked orange glare glowing through her. The battered N7 armour slowly disintegrated - its scarred and molten existence almost sighing after all it had suffered.

One last thought surfaced in her mind before the darkness embraced her for a second time.

_ The beer’d better be decent. _

Like a giant metal flower spreading its petals into bloom at Spring’s first light - the five wards of the Citadel opened to welcome a new era. At the colossal construct’s epicentre a light flared. The entire construct shuddered as vibrant green energy pulsed forth from where an ancient seat of power met a desperate bid for survival.

Allied forces scrambled to leave the battle as the call to retreat was sounded, their duty fulfilled, with the souls of billions paving the road for this opportunity. Now fear of what they may have unleashed chased them from where they had only hours before raced towards.

The swarming synthetic beings that had been sent out to reap all organic life in some delusional attempt to preserve it did not chase after the fleeing vessels. Instead, the nightmare constructs went limp, littering the vacuum of space surrounding the Earth like parasites in a pool suddenly pumped full of chlorine.

A child’s voice rang out through the void:  _ “You can’t help me.” _

A woman’s voice hitched as it replied:  _ “Just try to stop me.” _

 

-III-

 

She was Faith - watching as the woman sat cloistered in her spartan chambers, but the grandest of cathedrals. Echoing halls and soaring arches inhabited the same space as suffocating walls and cobwebbed buttresses.

Barely eating, drinking, or sleeping, the woman meditated, mind devoid of all but an iron will. Faith reached out, brushing its fingers across the woman’s strong-featured face, admiring both the reserved young girl she saw locked away and the driven woman simmering with hidden rage, both occupying the same space. Faith’s fingers passed through her, but as it drew back its hand the two before it merged and the woman’s eyes shot open, mouth growing into a broad smile.

...

She was Perseverance - watching as the girl grew up, holding the things that lurked at bay. Standing by the girl as she was mocked and scorned. Standing by her as the world turned against her, as the final answer was revealed to her.

Perseverance watched as the dark girl with soft features turned hard. As comfort and innocence were traded for struggle and pragmatism. Perseverance looked on as the girl’s ruined form was tossed from on high, purpose fulfilled. Perseverance looked on as a dark girl with hard features, who’d turned soft, crouched over the ruined form, a shadow swallowing them both.

...

She was Justice - watching as Pride committed injustice upon injustice unto its subjects. Justice watched as the people grew hopeless and angry. Watched as Despair and Fear courted with the borders of Pride’s domain. It grew furious. It marched forwards to act - she would see this travesty brought to an end.

...

She was Nobility - watching as the young woman, still in her early teens, stood between her brother and a Fade-touched beast. The creature’s aura of unnatural malice was rivaled only by the fearful rage that burned in the woman’s eyes. Nobility watched as flames licked across the woman’s hands, as the not-quite-innocent face assumed a furious snarl.

...

She was Valour - watching as the woman walked away. It considered calling out after, but upon looking down at its gauntleted hands the thought vanished. Valour turned back to the racks of ancient weapons behind it and brought its hands together, observing as the the essence of what it wanted to create was siphoned from the very air, gathering between its armoured hands in a glowing green nucleus.

...

She was Faith - watching as the girl screamed into her pillow, the ruby hair comfortingly familiar, though it knew not why. Faith tried reaching out to comfort her, but as always its hands passed right through. Something stuck in its core as it then saw the bedclothes starting to smoulder around the girl’s hands. Faith fled.

...

She was. She walked beside the scantily clad woman whenever she entered her realm, glad for the company. She had been treated with suspicion at first, but soon the woman started conversing with her as they traveled the aether. She enjoyed these moments, but the woman would always have to leave eventually.

...

Faith stood beside the red-haired girl. She was much older now. The emerald green eyes were strangely devoid of life - all of it buried beneath a dead sea of fear. Words tumbled from her lips, eerie in the manner they echoed off the stones. 

Men stood around the walls of the chamber. Faith could feel their eyes as they silently watched every move the girl made. Faith could feel herself within them, but she wanted to reach out to the girl, to help her. After what had occurred the last time, she stopped herself.

One of the men moved in on the girl, a glowing rod clasped in his hand. He pushed aside a lock of hair on the girl’s forehead and pressed the rod against the now-bared skin.

Faith grabbed the girl by the shoulders, not wanting her to suffer whatever it was the man was inflicting upon her. Faith’s incorporeal form passed right through the man as it normally did, yet her hands did not pass through the girl. She felt the texture of the rough tunic that the girl wore. Looking up in surprise, she saw the girl’s eyes glowing a bright blue as they looked right into her own.

There was a scuffle behind Faith as one man knocked the one holding the rod down. With the  glowing metal leaving the girl’s forehead, her eyes became blind to Faith’s presence once more and her hands slipped through the body as if it were as immaterial as the air.

...

Perseverance watched as the child stood at the core of the devastation. Eyes smouldered a fierce orange before the small body collapsed to the scorched ground, lids finally blocking out the angry light. Ashen skeletons stood in flash-frozen rictus around the bundle, armour and weapons fused to the bones. Nothing moved in the expanse for a long time, until eventually a figure crawled out from underneath the charred remains of a wagon, staggering towards the unconscious child.

...

Justice watched as the dark woman pushed through the crowds in front of her. She knew her, had seen her act in the essence of Justice before. The dark woman’s eyes flickered in recognition. In the woman’s wake followed two men, companions. Something about that struck a chord within the aspect.

She looked closer at the woman; there was something different about her from when she had first observed her, something that had slowly grown into place. Something that had taken root in the core of her being.

A small but bright nova burned within the woman, and from it a link tapered off into the distance, breaching all the barriers of the realms to reach...something Justice could not discern.

...

She was Command - watching as the girl fought against and ran away from herself. Fear, it was everywhere. Nightmare’s essence created the ideal breeding for it. Platinum hair streaming out behind her, the girl vanished, yet did not. She radiated a sun’s worth of light despite no longer being there.

...

She was Wisdom -  listening to the old man as he spoke, a constant visitor, perhaps even a friend. Always coming back to her in all her places. She knew that in truth she was the furthest from her aspect. Foolishness disguised as Wisdom, for wisdom was the knowing of the self. She was more a stranger to herself than to those she encountered.

-

She was and she watched, as she had always done. For as long as she could recall, she was the unseen observer, until one day she looked down at herself. Glowing within the core of her being was a nova, just like the one she had observed within the other woman…. She reached down, hand testing the link that tapered from her, away into the unknown.

Slowly a memory formed itself in her mind, an idea that was simple, elegant, yet shattering. It was a word, but more - a promise, a name. It brought sadness, elation, anger and peace to her all at once; blanketing it all was trust.

_ What is this? _

It took form, asserting itself over the ages within the span of a heartbeat. It was eternal and timeless, yet immediate, a core part of her being that had been lost.

_ Garrus. _

She uttered the word, and as the last syllable left her ethereal lips a woman’s voice echoed through the emptiness,  _ “There is no Shepard without Vakarian.” _

A lifetime of experiences rushed through her, leaving her staggered and shaken. She would have fallen had this place required strength to hold oneself.

A gravelly voice responded, reverberating in the void that followed too much emotion, too many memories.

_ “Remember that I took the kill shot.” _

Commander Eris Shepard opened her eyes.

 


	2. Post-Death Stress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter reworked and updated on 01 March 2016.
> 
> I realised too late that deleting chapters also destroys the comments, which gave me the crappiest of feelings. SO...all of you lovelies that gave glorious commentary: you have my sincerest apologies and I hope you'll find it in your hearts to forgive me for doing such a dastardly thing.
> 
> To the ME fans reading this that are unfamiliar with Dragon Age, you can find an intro [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6807631/chapters/15595198).

Shepard opened her eyes and saw nothing.

She stared out, unseeing, until a pain in her chest demanded her attention. The sensation was familiar, a burning crushing feeling. Recollection snapped somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind and her chest expanded, sucking in the air her body demanded.

She coughed involuntarily, an ugly hacking sound that left her throat aching. Each breath she took scratched at the back of her throat, trying to tease out another cough. Shepard swallowed, attempting to fight it back; she would have killed for a sip of water.

The pounding in her ears slowly subsided and her sight cleared as the small black blocks of threatening unconsciousness receded back into the corners of her vision, before disappearing completely.

She blinked several times, eyelids gooey, sticking together when they connected. She thought back, trying to remember where she was and why. Recollection knocked her so hard that her eyes barely resisted rolling back in her head. Flooding her mind’s eye were the Reapers swarming around the Earth, its cities burning infernos, visible even from space. Anderson and The Illusive Man, as opposite as poles on a compass, each willing to throw their life behind their convictions.

The Catalyst and the choice she had had to make. The Crucible. The beam. The end.

Yet now she was  _ here  _ and unless she was horribly mistaken, she still felt very much alive- she had always discarded all theories of reincarnation, but with her track record she may have needed to re-evaluate her view on things. Unless giant alien devices were  _ supposed _ to transport you to the inside of a shack.

That was where she found herself, for all intents and purposes. It may have had stone walls and a high ceiling, but the entire place seemed to scream “hovel”. From the dirt gathering in the corners, to rickety wooden furniture and cobwebs spanning any gap that did not look regularly traversed, the only things distinguishing the place from the inside of a cave were the ancient-looking floorboards and the small square window cut high into one wall.

Shepard was unsure how she had landed in the small room. She was lying on her back, so unless she had fallen from the ceiling (which looked remarkably whole, if that had been what had happened) she had been carried, or at least turned around at some point.

There was a metal frame of some sort behind her, so with some effort she managed to prop herself up against it. The frame clanked mutely as the ablative plates of her armour connected with it.

The small effort required far too much energy. Shepard closed her eyes, massaging her temples with one hand as all the sensory information had her head spinning, warning her to take things slower.

She sat back to try and give some of the aches time to settle, looking around her while praying to lay eyes on a convenient glass of water. She did not, but saw an earthenware jug listing precariously on an end-table that looked as if it were about to give out under the slightly added weight.

The rest of the room followed the theme. It appeared to be some sort of bedroom. Before her was a bed and the end-table. In the far corner Shepard could make out what seemed to be a large leather-bound tome. The markings on the cover were intricately done in what looked like natural dyes that blended together beautifully. It would not have been of great note to her had it not been the size of a small table. She wondered to herself what Kasumi might think of it. Might have? She realised then she had no idea who had made it out of the Reaper war, or even if the war was finally over. A twinge of worry for her best friend, her partner,  _ her  _ Garrus, managed to distract her from the potential promise the jug held for a few seconds before her sore throat reminded her with vehemence on the next inhale.

She pushed herself off of the frame she had been leaning against and managed to crawl to the ewer. Judging by its weight and the sloshing sound it made when she lifted it she had struck gold. She had to strain somewhat to not drop it, but it felt like her Cerberus implants were once again proving their money’s worth. The aches were already receding.

Shepard propped herself back up against the bed with some hesitance, the frame groaning threateningly, before sniffing at the contents of the jug, then taking a swallow. It probably tasted somewhat brackish, accented by any dirt that may have found its way into her mouth while she was out, but to her parched tongue it tasted like ambrosia.

After several slow sips she frowned, her eyes only then noticing the texture of the walls as she stared at them over the lip of the vessel. They looked to be made of some sort of stone, but instead of mortar, it seemed carved from a single massive piece. Of course there were ancient artifacts back on Earth that still defied science, but to have a pitiful dwelling made  _ inside  _ one? It reeked of something akin to what the colonists on Feros did. Living in the husk left behind by those who came before.

The only indications on the wall that it was anything but the natural stone were the miniature ridges that gave the stone the impression of a grain, similar to wood. There weren’t even any cracks. The analytic in Shepard was fascinated.

It occurred to her that there was something off about the whole place, but it took a while for her conscious mind to pick up on what it was. There was absolutely no tech in the entire dwelling. Or at least, none that she could see.

She had been in several places where that had been a theme. It had featured in quite a few of her N7 training program scenarios, as well as being a marketed ‘feature’ of several holiday getaways, but even there, there would have been evidence of tech having been used at  _ some _ point, be it either a uniform decor, or some sign of tooled maintenance. This place had none of that, as was implied by the monstrously large books. Not even the oldest library she knew of would sport such a volume.

Her musing was interrupted by a small scratching sound coming from the other room. She hastily put the jug back on the table, making it creak ominously, but her mind was elsewhere. She looked around, trying to see if there were a place she could hide and not immediately be found.

The bed was too short and low, she’d never fit underneath, not that the idea of the dust that no doubt had gathered underneath appealed to her. The only other larger feature of the room was a mirror that had to be at least two-and-a-half meters tall. It was to mirrors what the tome in the corner was to books. Unbelievably extravagant and, well,  _ big. _ That had to been the frame she had leaned against when first coming to! Shepard quietly thanked whatever was watching over her that she had not leaned against the glass in her exhausted state. But the mirror would also not offer her any refuge; it was far too narrow to hide her for any length of time should anyone enter the room.

Sighing inwardly, she resolved to resort to the oldest hiding spot - behind the door’s frame. Her legs strained painfully from the exertion, but she managed to prop herself against the wall in a manner that would allow her to lean on it while she waited.

As soon as her back touched the wall there was a wooden thump, shortly followed by what could only be a curse, no matter how muffled it was, and finally a creaking of rusty hinges that would have made the old suspense-themed movies proud. Noise rushed into, what Shepard guessed was likely a building, the bustle of people shouting, talking, the merging of a hundred different things into one glorious crescendo - the sounds of a city. A part of Shepard asked where the small window led to that those same sounds had not filtered in through it.

Voices started distinguishing themselves, far closer than any others, accompanied by footfalls. The sounds of the city cut out again - as if an airlock had cycled closed - the thought creased Shepard’s brow; why would the place have an airlock if it lacked all other forms of tech, unless...the city was independently pressurized from wherever she was? The Spectre had to force herself from thinking too much to focus on what was happening in the next room.

“...she just sort of fell out of it,” a female voice was saying in what was either an Irish, or a Welsh accent. Shepard was never quite able to tell them apart. “She wasn’t breathing when I turned her over, so I panicked and ran to you.” Whoever the speaker was, they had a very apologetic tone.

“And you’re sure it wasn’t anything you did, Daisy?” a smooth baritone oozing masculinity asked. “You didn’t accidentally trip, cut yourself and summon a demon?”

“No silly,” the first voice retorted matter-of-factly, “it doesn’t work like that. You have to focus really hard on what you’re doing when communicating with spirits.”

Shepard reviewed her options: the downside was that whoever had just entered the building was already aware that she was supposed to be there. The upside was that they had not taken advantage of her incapacitation, nor did their speech reflect people that planned to.

“Uh huh. I hate to break it to you Daisy, but you’re hardly the Paragon of Focus,” the man stated, sighing skeptically.

“Well, let’s see what we’re dealing with before we give Merrill credit for more weird,” a second female voice reasoned. Her smile was obvious in the words, but the suggestion carried an undercurrent familiar to Shepard. Whoever this woman was, she was used to being listened to, to getting her way.

“Hawke,” the man responded, “that goes without saying. All the weird is  _ your _ doing, not Merrill’s.”

The man had barely voiced his tease when Shepard heard a heavy wooden thump followed shortly by the second female’s - Hawke’s - voice, “Maker, fuck!”

Shepard used the commotion to push herself off the wall and shuffle across the room back to the mirror. Dropping to the floor in front of it as quietly as she could while the male’s laughing and the first female’s - Merrill’s? voice’s profuse apologies covered any noise she might have made.

Once she had settled herself against the smooth wall that made up one side of the corner that the mirror was placed in she folded her legs underneath herself in a manner that would allow her to get up again with haste - should it be required.

“I suppose that explains your presence,” the woman quipped in response to the man’s comment, when her stream of curses ran out and his laughing died away.

“Touché Hawke.”

“Now, now, don’t you get all Orle..”

A tall, raven-haired  woman rounded the doorway and stopped dead in her tracks as her clear blue eyes found Shepard. Her half-spoken retort drifted off, forgotten. 

She moved fast, fast enough that even Shepard would have raised a brow had she not been moving herself. A staff appeared in the new arrival’s hand as if summoned from the very air. The woman swung it around, bringing a blade that was attached to the pole’s base to bear. The tip of the weapon might have hovered threateningly had Shepard not gripped the blade and pointed it away from herself,locking her gaze with the woman on the other end of the weapon. Not a staff, a glaive.

Sage-green met sky-blue in a test of wills as each tried to ascertain the other’s intention.

“Who are you?” the woman asked, joking manner from seconds before evaporated.

Shepard heard a small squeak as who she supposed was Merrill walked into the raven-haired one’s back.

A short man wearing a leather coat and tunic that had its top buttons undone, deftly moved between the door’s edge and the woman blocking the way, betraying a dexterity that seemed out of character on his stocky frame. He was fingering a gold-embossed stock that protruded over his shoulder. His sharp eyes jumped first from the woman he had been following, to Shepard, then back again.

“Hawke, I don’t think…” he started.

“Who are you?” Hawke asked a second time. “Why do I know you?”

The short man shut his mouth, holding his hands open, palms facing away from himself in a gesture of surrender, clearly not happy with the situation.

Shepard watched the small exchange. While it seemed that these people were no strangers to violence, judging by how they carried themselves and their weapons, there was no clear malice in their deeds. Even this ‘Hawke’s’ actions were much like her own could have been.

“Sorry Hawke,” the Merrill apologised from behind the woman in the doorway, as she carefully squeezed into the room. “I must not have been watching where I was walking again.”

Something about Merrill’s proportions set off Shepard’s internal warnings. Her shoulders, chest and hips seemed to be formed in a manner that made the woman inherently slim and graceful, while still being a good deal shorter than both Shepard and Hawke. In addition to the strange body, she had large innocent doe-eyes set in a face wreathed by intricate tattoos. The way she carried herself reminded Shepard of the Quarians - always trying to fade into the background.

“Shut up, Merrill,” Hawke spat, eyes never leaving the the Spectre’s, not noticing how the other woman visibly recoiled at the harsh words.

The deadlock lasted a few more seconds before both parties seemed to recognise a kindred spirit. Hawke nodded slowly and Shepard returned the gesture. Just as Shepard was about to blink - to accept that the confrontation had passed for now, the world around her fell away.

She was no longer in the hovel, she was deep in a forest, a girl that looked suspiciously like a younger version of the Hawke woman standing before her. She was standing between a small boy and a monstrously large creature wreathed in clouds of shadow that shimmered green. It growled threateningly. The primal sound sent shivers down Shepard’s spine, Hawke’s as well if the pursed lips were any indication.

Blood was running down Hawke’s left arm from where four gashes cut across her bicep. She brushed a loose strand of hair out of her face as she continued eying the lupine, the move inadvertently leaving a bloody streak across the bridge of her nose. The wolf circled around and she moved with it, keeping herself between it and the boy.

Both parties ignored the N7 completely.

Shepard looked intently at the shadowed creature and was surprised to find that it was indeed a wolf. A detail that had escaped her previously, but at some point she had begun thinking of it as such. She saw its muscles bunch under the pelt as the creature tensed. Now that she knew what it was she could not see how she had not noticed that at first. She stepped forward, pushing the raven-haired girl back as green-blue light rippled down her arms. The world went white.

Shepard blinked. She was back in the hovel and the short man was speaking.

“Come on Hawke, she seems harmless. Well, about as harmless as anything in Kirkwall can be. We run around with a blood mage, a former slave that rips out beating hearts and an abomination. Why are you being so harsh? I mean, shouting at Daisy?”

Shepard saw the Hawke blink as she had done a moment ago and absently run a finger across the crimson mark that ran across her nose, eyes staring right through Shepard as if she were not there. Hawke blinked again, shaking her head and looked back at Shepard.

“Yes, of course,” she conceded, rubbing her eyes as if having difficulty shaking something from her mind. 

_ The vision I just had? Did she also have it? _

“I apologise Merrill, that was uncalled for.”

Shepard saw the whisper of a smile appear on Merrill’s face. “Don’t worry about it Hawke, I’m all right.”

Finally Hawke’s eyes settled on Shepard again, lost in thought. “You were there that day…” she started. Shepard nodded. She did not know how and what was happening and the sceptic in her hated it. But she had died before and come back, with a perfectly plausible, if improbable, explanation. Perhaps if she waited long enough, one would present itself here as well.

Unbidden this time, she decided it was time to introduce herself, “Eris Shepard, Alliance Navy, but somehow I doubt that that mean anything here.”

“Navy eh?” the dwarf asked rhetorically. “Rivaini will love having another sea...person to talk to about boats. But we usually pick those up in disreputable establishments or at the docks, not from creepy Dalish mirrors. As I said Hawke,  _ weird _ .”

Hawke inclined her head, seemingly satisfied. She had since lowered her weapon and used a strap attached to it to sling it around her shoulder, reaching over with a now-freed hand to shake Shepard’s. “Sorana Hawke, but most just call me Hawke.”

Shepard smiled to herself, mildly amused. She knew what that was like.

The short man did a small half-bow as he introduced himself, “Varric Tethras, of House Tethras and unfortunately also the Merchant’s Guild.” Why did the man give Shepard the impression that he would get along with Kasumi like a house on fire?

“Ooh and I’m Merrill and I’m Dalish…well, sort of.”

Shepard nodded her greeting to the girl.

There was an awkward silence that lasted a few seconds as none of them knew how to proceed. Finally, Hawke cleared her throat. “May I ask what you’re doing in my friend’s house?” she asked gesturing at Merrill, who smiled shyly. “And don’t tell me it’s to pick up housekeeping tips, ‘cause we’d be able to tell that that’s a lie.”

“That’s not fair, Hawke!” Merrill interjected, “It’s clean sometimes…I promise!”

The odd camaraderie the trio shared managed to bring the slightest of grins to Shepard’s lips. She gestured to the room around her, shrugging. “I have no fucking idea; I’m supposed to be dead.”


	3. Streets of Kirkwall

_ Well...fuck. _

The thought pretty much summarized how Shepard felt as Hawke, Varric and Merrill escorted her through the streets outside the hovel, _ Merrill’s home, _ the polite part of her mind corrected. The first thing that hit Shepard as they passed through the doorway into the outside world was the smell; needless to say, it had almost knocked her off her feet as she tried to fight the urge to throw up.  _ ‘Not the best way to impress the locals Shep, they probably like their shoes clean.’ _ She would have been sorely tempted to slip on her helmet and seal the suit, no matter how rude it may have been, had she had her helmet.

Immediately after the introductions, she took inventory of her gear. She recalled that her hardsuit had essentially been written off by Harbinger’s attack before she made it onto the Citadel, but she was once again clad in enamelled black; that, her dog-tags and her omni-tool were all she had to her name, unless the  _ Normandy _ was to swing by.

Hawke and Varric had stopped to wait for her, their expressions hiding a pained sort of understanding. Merrill seemed oblivious to it all and cheerily walked up to a man who had a strangely similar posture to hers and seemed to get completely engrossed in a conversation with him.

“Daisy, we’ll see you in the Hanged Man later?” Varric asked Merrill, who stopped chattering to the man she had engaged just long enough to nod several times, vigorously. Shepard wondered how her head remained on her thin neck, if such enthusiastic gestures were in her nature. Varric looked to Shepard expectantly and swept his hand in Hawke’s direction, who smirked and headed off into the crowds. The raven-haired woman led them to a large painted tree and then turned to head up a broad stairway.

Shepard observed her surroundings through all the lenses her experience gave her. The Soldier - ever the loudest, revealed that this part of whatever city they were in looked to be designed to control crowds. The roofs were flat, allowing for them to be used either as an extension of the homes which they covered, or as elevated blinds to oversee the streets. What few side-streets she had seen were narrow, and would force large numbers of people to be carefully funnelled into open areas such as the square she was in.

The Historian in her looked at the design of the buildings and the manner of dress of those around her, the colouring and what architecture was being used. Apart from the odd construction of the actual buildings themselves, the design looked much like those used by cultures based around Earth’s Mediterranean Sea, with the addition of vicious looking metal ornaments and buttresses. The attire of the people varied greatly, with most following a style reminiscent of Europe’s Middle Ages or Renaissance. Others were garbed in clothes that were either a mixture of styles she was familiar with, or created a new, unfamiliar one entirely.

The Intelligence Officer watched how the people interacted with one another, their bearing and comfort levels. The people around her seemed at ease with one another, but that was not the case with herself and at some points Hawke. She caught several glances aimed in her direction that reflected nervousness, anger, or even outright fear. Varric, despite his rather ostentatious outfit, was mostly ignored.

She knew from her training that all of the moods directed at her were like a fuse waiting to be lit, resulting in a riot of mindless crowd logic. Shepard automatically became that much more aware of herself and moved to walk just slightly behind Hawke’s right.

The other woman angled a smile at her, but did not look back. “From your reaction to Kirkwall’s  _ characteristic _ aroma, I hope it’s safe for me to assume you’re not from around here? Your odd attire ignored.”

“There are some who’d say that I’ve experienced a vast array of things, but I have to admit, only on the rarest of occasions have I been treated to an immediate and painful death of my sense of smell.”

Varric chuckled at her elbow, somehow not struggling to keep up with the two taller women at all. “Just one of the many splendours of the city we call home. But if you think this is bad, just wait until you step into the Undercity.”

Shepard looked down at him, brow rising. “Undercity? Not sure I want to find out. With a name like that, going there just seems to be begging for trouble.”

“Wiser words were never spoken,” he sighed, shaking his head in mock sadness. “Pity our illustrious leader here never had the sense to have the same occur to her.”

“Hey!” Hawke interjected, turning around just quick enough to kick the short man in the shin. There was a metallic clang as her boot connected with what had to be greaves. “I’ll have you know that I knew full well what we were getting into when I first took you. Stupid Red Iron jobs had me mucking around down there quite often. Besides,” her face split into a grin, “who said I don’t like trouble?”

Varric’s face also split into a grin at this, “Well I contacted you for a reason, but I’d still like to point out that it would probably be best for you to avoid trouble, everything considered.”

“Enough of that, you pint-sized quill-twiddler.”

“That you choose to wield your ability to make the truth sound like an insult wounds me grievously, Hawke. Bianca might take offence.”

Shepard let the pair continue with their banter as they wove through the winding streets and crowds. People parted well ahead of Hawke even after they entered an area where the other pedestrians were of a height Shepard was more used to attributing to humans. She did not question why the crowds parted as they did. Hawke set a pace that promised a painful collision with the floor if someone stepped in her way, and the Spectre supposed that the openly-worn weapons chased anyone else out of their path. Varric’s monstrosity of what could only be a crossbow strapped to his back had Shepard doing a double-take when she first saw it.

Her mind had also wandered down an aisle that speculated whether wherever she was still used a feudal system. If that were the case, it would explain why people got out of her escort’s way in the sense that they were clearly dressed better. Hawke was wearing a dark coat of sorts with minimalistic golden embroidery. Thigh-high boots hugged her legs and a red sash was wrapped around her waist. Varric dressed like a sultan, barring his weapon and the utilitarian manner in which his blondish hair was tied back into a small pony instead of wearing a turban.

Her own armour had to be as out of place as Wrex would be at a _My Little Pony_ party. She had never given much heed to fashion trends; her armour had been her second skin on and off the battlefield, when something more comfortable or subtle was required her Alliance fatigues always did the job. But in this city she stuck out like a sore thumb, encased in enamelled black as she was. In any case, she would not be afforded the luxury of blending in unless she underwent a change of clothes.

Whatever part of the city they were currently in, it had to be the slums - every city had them, despite how much they liked to pretend that they did not. The smell had drastically improved from where they had started off in front of Merrill’s, but that might just have been Shepard’s nose finally giving up. The buildings were much like the hovel - building upon building crowded together.

Her two guides stopped abruptly, and Shepard nimbly stepped around Varric so that she would not trip over him.

“Here we are!” Hawke announced with flair, sweeping her arm dramatically.

“Uhm…” Shepard started, unsure whether she had missed some vital landmark; the street looked like any other they had passed through.

“What Hawke means to say is that since we found you at the home of one of our unfortunate tag-alongs, you will now be vetted for a spot among aforementioned tag-alongs and unless you have any better ideas I’d just play along. Hawke probably wants to keep an eye on you after the weird earlier and that means induction via Hanged Man at the very least.” Varric explained, making it sound as if all he said were common knowledge.

“Hanged man?” Shepard asked, giving the two a suspicious glance.  _ Of course it wouldn’t be this easy to slot into…whatever society this is. First I must survive a virgin sacrifice! Headbutt a Thresher maw! Have a karaoke showdown against Mordin’s ghost. _ “I really hope that’s a bad euphemism for something not involving the rather lethal means of execution.”

Hawke’s laughter pealed between the buildings, causing some of the people shuffling through the rubbish-littered streets to look up at the group. As soon as they saw them though, they averted their eyes again, returning to whatever business or errands they had been on. Hawke grinned again, an expression that seemed to be the only one her face could carry for any length of time.“Oh I can only imagine Isabela’s reaction to  _ that _ comment.”

Varric sighed heavily, “Hawke,  _ you’re _ supposed to be the correcting influence on Rivaini, not her the corrupting one.”

“I beg to differ! The correcting influence here is our golden-chested dwarf!”

Varric rolled his eyes and covered his face with a hand, but Shepard could see the quirk of his lips from where she stood. A pang of jealousy shot through Shepard as she recalled having had someone with whom she could exchange jabs like that a day ago.  _ Are you sure it was a day? The last time it was two years and you ended up in a Cerberus facility, getting your ass shot at as soon as you could pry open your eyes.  _ She buried the thought and all the raw emotions it brought with it, the image of a battered turian getting dragged back onto the Normandy against his will, arm still reaching out towards her as she blinked the tears from her eyes and turned to face down Harbinger himself.

She returned to the present just as Hawke addressed her. “The  _ Hanged Man _ is this here fine establishment,” she said gesturing to a doorway that was partially hidden in an ally, “dingiest tavern in the city, with the worst ale to boot.”

“Whether that is a lethal means of execution is still up for debate,” Varric added.

“Ah, alcohol...perfect. Not sure how well that’ll go on an empty stomach, but at this point I couldn’t give a damn.”  _ A chance to celebrate a victory against the Reapers without getting spaced? Hell yeah. _

Hawke simply grinned her agreement and kicked open the door with an armoured boot before marching inside. Varric groaned as he followed her. “Hawke I just had the owner  _ replace _ the old hinges and the man is tighter with money than most Guild members.”

Mentally bracing herself, Shepard ducked under the low doorway after the short man. The Reapers were gone; if this was a bad idea, the universe would just bloody well have to deal with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent far too much time designing Shep's tags while working on this - ones that make more sense than the shiz on Amazon or that got shipped with the preorder.
> 
> [MaryDragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryDragon) asked for things to add to a box of 'offworlder things' in her [MCiT story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4651176/chapters/10609854) and I couldn't resist, considering that her tags are the _one thing_ that went through all the shit in the games with her.
> 
> Considering the effort that went into them, they'll definitely make another appearance at some point.


	4. Hanged Men

The Hanged Man was filthy; its walls were cut in the same manner as the rest of the city, but there seemed to be an extra layer of grime using the small grooves as purchase to cover them in a self-applied plaster. The ceiling was covered in a similar method- soot blackening it to the point that one could not tell what it was made of.

It was furnished in a way that screamed  _ “tavern” _ as much as Merrill’s abode had screamed  _ “hovel.” _ The bar was located to the left as one entered the place, the route between it and the door the clearest walking space in the entire room. Behind the counter a miserable-looking sandy-haired barman was wiping what she later learned was a whiskey glass, but dirty enough to have passed for the same dull ceramic Merrill’s pitcher had been made of.

If there had ever been stools, they had probably been trashed by the time Shepard arrived. Patrons stood at the bar, most leaning against it in a semi-inebriated state. There were two other areas where the floor could be seen, or at least some dirt-covered portions of it. The first was around the large fireplace set into a wall right of the entrance over which a large cast-iron pot hung, filled with sludge that might have passed as stew during one of its better days. The second was on the far side of the room, where a set of steps led to what Shepard assumed would be accomodations.

The rest of the room was filled with furniture that would either last through the end of days, or had already seen it. Draped over this furniture were numerous forms of bodies at various states of drunkenness. The only patrons that seemed to be in possession of their wits were two men furiously arguing with each other over a remarkably intact table (considering how many holes it had), a woman leaning on the counter trying to catch the bartender’s attention and another running about with a tray, the latter likely to be the barmaid.

Hawke once again took the lead, with Varric content to follow after her. She forced a path through to the far side of the room, leaving several bruised and groaning patrons in her wake. Shepard rushed to catch up with them before the path was once again blocked. They carried on straight through a door opposing the staircase to the common room, which Varric closed as soon as the Spectre passed the threshold. There was a small sound of discharging static and noise from outside ceased.

Shepard turned to look at the door, the thick unassuming wood not  betraying anything to the secret of its sound-proofing. 

“Sound-wards,” Varric explained, as if that said everything there was to be said about the topic.

Hawke had found a large reed-woven chair on the far side of the room, into which she was tossing pillows pilfered from a low bed in the far corner of the room, and invited Shepard to do the same.

“Aw, come on Hawke, do you  _ have  _ to use my bedding?”

“It’s the only shit in this place worth sitting on,” she fired back.

Shepard took a moment to inspect her new surroundings. Contradictory to Hawke’s comment, the room they were in starkly contrasted with anything she had seen so far. The walls were clean enough for her to identify the Liesegang rings in it, giving the space a natural beauty, enhanced by low granite furniture inlaid with highly polished copper motifs.

The room seemed to be divided into two parts, one section was largely a living area, with a long low table and a bed, the other more an entertainment section, with a higher round wooden table and an assemblage of stairs stacked in the corner - where Hawke had retrieved hers.

Shepard moved towards the bookshelves, intent on discovering what the literature of this world would tell her, since she had not been able to look through the books crowding Merrill’s small rooms. Before she reached them though she was interrupted by Varric, who was still hovering by the door, “Shepard, was it? What’s your poison?”

“A litre of water.”

“See, Hawke? This is what sensible looks like...or at least until I figure out what a litre is. I’ll assume it’s foreign for gallon,” he jibed before slipping out the door.

Hawke snorted, “I don’t know about sensible looks, but it did  _ sound _ sensible...if boring.”

“I think that’s exactly what I need. A good strong dose of  _ boring, _ ” the Spectre stated as she sunk into a seat next to the other woman. “I’ve had enough excitement to last me...two? Two. Two lifetimes.”

Shepard nodded her gratefulness to the short man as he opened the door again, noise rushing into the room as he spoke to a maid who had no doubt come to get their order. The Spectre decided to settle on a spot adjacent to where Hawke was sitting at the head of the table.

As soon as she had settled, whatever her implants had been doing to keep the pain to a minimum cut out. Shepard groaned as all her aches made themselves known. It felt like ages since she had simply relaxed. Not just a few stolen winks between battle logs and supply reports, or simple exhaustion coming to the forefront, leading to drooled-on Reaper movements. No, the last time she had properly  _ relaxed _ had been ages ago. Before the war, before the Collectors, before Saren.

It had been after the Skyllian Blitz. She and a friend from basic had been on vacation to one of the more distantly removed colonies, where the paparazzi wouldn’t find their newest hero. It had been a quiet place, with little excitement. Every day was the same as the next, but Shepard had found it bliss; four months of predictability. She wondered if Anna was still alive.

Eris closed her eyes, pretending that the silence was the starboard lounge in the  _ Normandy _ , where Kasumi used to stash her eclectic - yet priceless - collection of art and dog-eared books.

She could almost hear Tali again, sitting at the bar all alone, drinking to Miranda, to herself, to both of them trying to outgrow the shadow of their fathers and coming to realise that they were their own person. She could almost hear Vega, Gabby, Kenneth and Joker try to teach Javik how the ‘primitive’ game of poker worked. Almost hear the secondary rumble that was the undercurrent to Garrus’ voice as he explained to one of the greener crew members how efficient the foe they were fighting was.

Almost, but not quite. Instead of the low hum that was the air recyclers, or the subtle vibration of the drive core, there was the sound of muted crowds. Instead of the slightly lavender-scented air, lingering after-effects of one of the pranks played by EDI in an attempt to explore ‘humour,’ Shepard’s olfactory senses were beginning to pick up hints of parchment, ink, old alcohol and what she swore had to be some kind of cologne, her nose recovering from the assault of the streets.

“Andraste’s ass, now there’s two of them,” Shepard heard Varric say, completely breaking her out of her fading reverie. She blinked several times, giving the short man - really short - a questioning glance.

He made a vague sweeping gesture in the two women’s direction, “That whole...cat thing routine. I swear if Blondie was here to see it he’d start cooing and try to scratch you between the ears.”

Hawke snorted derisively. “Well, unlike the bedraggled creatures he always drags in,  _ this _ one has claws, and will not hesitate to use them should any  _ cooing  _ take place.”

This elicited a grunt-like laugh from the blond man. There was a knock at the door, which Varric opened, taking the tray from the maid, carrying the drinks towards the other two and placing them in front of each.

Shepard could not take a gulp from hers soon enough, once more eliciting a sound of satisfaction as the not-quite-cool liquid washed down her parched throat.

Varric moved to take a seat on an almost throne-like chair; no, not almost, it definitely was a throne. He caught Shepard’s look and his mouth quirked into an accommodating smile.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I make my residence in this fine establishment,” he probed.

Shepard’s gaze turned analytical. “Actually, yes. I’d think if one could afford to, one would try and be as far away from this place as possible.”

Varric laughed, “That’s the idea; while I’m here, none of the Merchant’s Guild will ever dare come. The place doesn’t cater well for their...traditionalist dwarven sensitivities, regardless of what I hear of the alehouses in Orzammar.”

What the short man had said brought Shepard’s brows together in thought.  _ Dwarves. He said it in the manner I’ve only heard seen in fantasy fiction - a separate race from humanity entirely, but there are still humans here...the chances of me landing on a planet whose organic life developed into exactly the same as the one back on Earth is...improbable beyond calculating. Where in the damn universe have I ended up? That I landed anywhere that’s not space is already nearly impossible...but...something else it at work here. _

“Now, now, Red. Frowning does scary things to that pretty face.”

Varric’s comment had Shepard grinning, something she was trying to hide, since it had clearly been his intention to get that reaction, but was not very successful. Oh the grin. It used to be an almost permanent feature, plastered onto her face. But then she died, then there had been Cerberus and the Collectors and then there had been the War. During those days there had only been a select few that could bring her to smile. The weight of responsibility always tugged down at the corners of her lips. Those were the days she cherished the odd, almost circus-like assortment of friends that made up her squad. The ones who had stood by her in the hunt for Saren, in the fight against the Collectors, and finally against the Reapers themselves.

Odd, how having to bear the fate of all space-faring life had bound them together, disparate as they were. A responsibility that would  have crushed Shepard if not for the sisterly affection from Tali. If not for the paternal gruffness from Wrex and the youthful admiration of Grunt. The jealous respect of Miranda and the reluctant trust of Jack. The stubborn manner in which Zaeed stuck around despite his claims to mercenary, and how Kasumi always appeared from the shadows to assist when help was most needed. Joker’s snark, a barrier between others and how he truly felt. The thoughtfulness of EDI when cold calculations were expected. The curiosity and sacrifice of Legion, an avatar of those too long misunderstood. The innocence and sweetness of Liara, so suited, yet not, in her role as Shadow Broker. The ageless wisdom and loyalty of Samara and the knife-edge intellect of Mordin. Then Garrus, the stupid, calibrating, bird-faced foundation of her life. The scarred sniper whose words were as accurate as his aim, always finding their way to her heart and calming her, cheering her, and giving her hope...something to smile about, something that brought out the infectious grin, the one he had told her made the galaxy seem a better place. Something that appeared on her face of its own accord, watching the two others in the room interact.

Shepard rolled her shoulders and leaned back in her seat, tuning back into the conversation. Varric had seemingly been satisfied with only getting a smile from her and had been arguing with Hawke.

“Dwarven honour my arse, you Merchant’s Guild blokes? Never seen more bare-faced liars banding together like that,” the tall woman was saying.

“Oh, on that, I can wholly agree; we should burn their Hall to the ground some time. Maybe accidentally steer the next Golem we run into through their cellars.”

“It’s a date then; keep smirking like that, Shepard, and I’ll have you form a club with the local Knight-Captain. Don’t believe Hawke when she says I’m making shit up - the man’s grin is weaponised and she’s just denying that she’s also succumbed to its power.”   
  
“Maker, Varric. I swear, the man doesn’t even have a neutral expression, he’s like a walking thundercloud.”

“Only when you’re around Rana, only when you’re around.”


	5. Motley Crew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first new chapter! Hopefully it makes up for the deleted comments. ;_;

The door to Varric’s place burst open, flooding the room with noise until it bounced closed again, leaving a woman standing in the room. It was the same one Shepard had seen earlier at the bar while they had passed through the common room. She looked to be of Spanish descent and her attire screamed either gypsy or pirate. Shepard was going with the latter, since the prior were known for their penchant for wearing every single skirt they owned at once. There was a notable lack of skirts here. The Spectre also doubted that a gypsy-culture would have women strutting around with weapons being flaunted as this one’s daggers were. Then again, she didn’t even know where  _ she  _ was, nevermind what the place’s cultural norms were. They were very nice looking daggers; almost managed to distract from the other things the woman flaunted.

She wore thigh-high leather boots that, unlike the fashion accessories she was used to, had actually seen some severe wear and tear. The only other clothing the woman wore were a blue bandanna and a coarse white tunic, with the tunic reaching just far enough to make Shepard vaguely curious whether the woman wore hot pants underneath it or not and its laces in the front mostly undone, leading Shepard to think one word: slut. A nagging thought the redhead also had begged to know how the stranger was not spilling out of her top.

_ “Varric!” _ she exclaimed salaciously as the door clicked shut.

The dwarf had not even looked up from the stack of paper he was rifling through, the half-moon spectacles he had pulled out of his coat giving him a surprising scholarly look. “Hey Rivaini.”

“Why did I have to find out from Felissa that we have a guest?” Oddly enough, her accent reminded Shepard of a Lancashire one.

Varric looked at her over the rims of his glasses. “We walked through the common room as always, Isabela, and you know Hawke isn’t quiet when she clears a path through there. You could have used your  _ eyes.” _

Shepard watched the exchange with interest. This Isabela’s entrance had put her on high alert and she’d had to fight the instinct to jump up before she saw that neither of the other two reacted to the sudden interruption.  _ Relax Shepard. There’s nobody here who knows you, I think. Besides, Cerberus and the Reapers are done for. _

_ Yeah, until a double agent and a clone of yourself try to kill you in a sushi place. _

Regardless of her reservations, she forced herself to relax back into the chair and take another sip from her second pint of water, as if this were everyday for her.

“Yes, well, I was occupied-” Hawke snorted at that, “-and I thought it was just another one of your visitors that seem to come through here every now and then. Not a  _ guest.” _

The way she emphasised the word had Shepard wondering what connotations the tanned woman was attaching to it. Judging by her dress, her mind did not need to work hard to reach an assumption.

Varric was about to say something but Shepard waved him down. “It’s all right, I can handle your crazy friend.”

“Well, I tried,” the short man sighed, returning to his papers. Hawke merely grinned at Shepard, clearly expecting some entertainment.

Isabela turned to face the Spectre, who was still lounging in her chosen seat. Sans pilfered pillows -unlike Hawke’s. Shepard reasoned her hardsuit would hardly allow her to get any benefit from them.

“Normally all these two ever bring home is news of more dead bandits, abominations and crazy templars or mages. But you...you’re the first person in  _ years _ . The last one was Sebastian,” the woman shot a regretful look into space as she sighed, “such a waste.”

Her gaze fixed on Shepard once more and the N7 had to hand it to her, the woman could undress someone with their eyes like no one she had ever encountered. Well, no one save this one turian she knew, damn that sniper’s dedicated focus.

“So, how would the prospect of-” anything else the woman said was lost as Shepard’s mind ground to a standstill. She was actually being propositioned to. Right then. Her. Commander-fucking-Shepard. By a pirate. “-ing to know one another  _ much _ better.”

Isabela had wound around Shepard’s chair and somehow ended up in the Spectre’s lap, running a hand over the N7 symbol.

“No,” Shepard stated flatly.

“No? No what, no restraints? No-” Shepard did pick up on the slight resignation in the woman’s voice, but this was not exactly something she would do on a whim. It was not something she’d have thought she would  _ ever  _ do, had it not been for one sneaky bastard...and his reach.

“No,” she repeated, “I won’t have sex with you, or let you watch me have sex with anyone, or...anything along that line of thought.”

Hawke laughed at Isabela’s crestfallen face. The woman did not immediately remove herself from Shepard’s lap, but she did turn to leer at Hawke. “I’m still going to get that show out of you and the elf at some point.”

Hawke simply grinned again and leaning forward weaved a hand into Isabela’s loose hair, and brought their foreheads together, speaking an a breathy not-quite-whisper: “In your dreams pirate-queen, in your dreams.”

Hawke achieved her desired result. Shepard could see how the woman’s irises had dilated, and then how they narrowed as the realization of what she had actually been told made it to her brain. “Oh fuck you Hawke, I’ll need at least two nights at the ‘Rose to fully appreciate the ideas you just gave me. Hawke, the elf and...hmph. I never got your name.”

“Shepard.”

“Ah, a  _ pleasure _ to meet you Shepard,” Isabela greeted, as if her prior attempted seduction had not happened at all.

“I’m sure the feeling’s not quite mutual,” Varric chuckled from his place.

“Shoo, dwarf. I  _ know _ everyone wants a piece of this, regardless of what they think their better judgement says.”

“I’m not sure ‘everyone’ wants a piece of whatever it is that brings you to Anders’ clinic every second week,” Hawke drawled.

The woman jumped up and started making her way to the exit. “Hmph, you people have no appreciation for the finer things in life. You know where to find me if you need killing things,” she called as farewell before closing the door behind her.

“Finer things indeed,” Shepard said, shaking her head with a bemused smile on her lips. “Is she really a pirate?”

“Yep.  _ Captain _ Isabela of the  _ Siren’s Call _ or something similar. Unfortunately the vessel is lying at the bottom of the ocean somewhere along the Wounded Coast. She’s been trying to get a new one for the past six years. I’d sponsor her a vessel...but she’s far too much fun to have around.”

“Not to mention that my trusty dwarf fears being outnumbered when it comes to us non-lockpicking types; Isabela  _ loves _ her lubricated tumblers.”

“Ah, yes, that too,” Varric agreed, shuddering.

“Being outnumbered, or your pirate’s attraction to pins?” Shepard asked, picking up on the dwarf’s discomfort.

“Both.”

Hawke raised her drink to with a knowing look before downing what was left of it. The Spectre, while not understanding the context, did appreciate the good-natured grousing.

“So…” Hawke started after a few minutes of silence, filled only by the scratching of Varric’s quill. “What’s your story, Shepard?”

Before the Spectre could respond though, a loud knocking sounded at the door as it was pushed open, revealing a woman with bright orange hair, decked in full plate armour, the like of which Shepard had only ever seen in vids, pictures, and museums.

“Aveline!” Hawke greeted cheerfully, “What brings my favourite Guard Captain to this most humble of gatherings?”

Aveline eyes passed over Shepard briefly, but the woman screamed  _ cop _ and she was acting like law-enforcement under strain.

“Not now Hawke,” she interjected before the other woman could say anything more. “There’s been an... _ incident _ , with the Qunari. I need your help.”

Shepard wasn’t sure how she did it, but Hawke was suddenly next to Aveline with an arm wrapped around her shoulders. “Oh well you know how much I adore our cute little giants in their cheerful camp of doom. Tell us what’s the matter on the way there. Varric, get Bianca, tell her we’re going on a date.”

“As soon as I dispel the image of Qunari in knitwear from my head, Hawke.”

“What does…” Aveline began, but stopped herself. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

Hawke beckoned Shepard with the hand that was not wrapped around a pillar of steel annoyance that pretended the woman wasn’t there. “Shep, you look like you can handle cracking a few skulls. Wanna come along?”

Aveline looked from Hawke to Shepard, who had stood up and was checking her hardsuit. “Is this one of your new tag-alongs?” she asked, some exasperation bleeding into her tone.

“Well I don’t know about  _ tagging-along _ , but she showed up in Merrill’s place this noon and has been content to do so until now.”

“And until I know where the fuck I am and how the fuck to get home that could remain the status quo,” Shepard answered, but paused what she was doing to look at Hawke with an odd sense of deja vu. “But do anything I take issue with and I’ll not take it lying down.”

“Oh, everyone takes issue with what I do,” the dark woman dismissed airily, “so long as your issues are only with me and don’t threaten any of my friends, then we’ll get along just fine.” Her eyes locked with Shepard’s, as intent as they had been when they first met with her last statement.

“Alright, enough with the murder-stare, Rana. Unlike everyone else, Red didn’t introduce herself to us by demanding we kill things for her. Give her some slack,” Varric reprimanded mildly, slinging his monstrous crossbow over his shoulder.

“Maker, Varric. You’re starting to sound like my mother.” Hawke laughed, tension diffused.

Aveline just sighed and walked out of the room.

Hawke’s eyes widened with some realization and she jumped over Varric’s table, calling, “Moment!” and vanishing into a doorway that Shepard had not realised was there until the other woman disappeared.

She reappeared hauling what looked to be an oiled leather bag the size of the kit the Systems Alliance soldiers would use on extended groundside missions. Shepard could see several wooden and metal objects sticking out from the one side.

Hawke dropped her burden at the Spectre’s feet, the contents clattering. She flourished and indicated Shepard inspect what she had brought.

“Behold! Implements of death and dismemberment, for your perusal,” Hawke said by way of explanation. “I still haven’t seen you bearing any weapons. So unless you’re  _ really _ sneaky, you’ll probably need some.”

It sounded to Shepard like the woman meant a great deal more with ‘sneaky’ than simple subtlety, but was too overwhelmed to overly care. Her studies in metallurgy for her engineer qualification had once gone on a tangent into Earth’s militant history. Considering her life it was probably not that large of a leap, but it meant she knew just enough of fourteenth to sixteenth centuries’ weaponsmithing to be impressed by what had just, literally, been dumped at her feet.

She ran a gloved hand along the edge of what had to be a greatsword, or claymore. It was massive. That Hawke had managed to bear this, several like it  _ and _ all the smaller weapons spoke volumes to the woman’s strength.

Shepard took it by the hilt and lifted to find that the weapon was surprisingly light. It couldn’t weigh more than her Harrier. She could not see herself wielding anything like it, so she gently returned it to the pile.

Hawke pulled out a long dagger, similar in character to Isabela’s, and an axe, giving Shepard a questioning look. The redhead tested both weapons, liking the feel of them, but not quite comfortable with either.

“Hmm,” she mused looking a mace over, “a year ago, when I was, mmm ‘honourably discharged’ I took a look at the training regimens that the N7 training was offering. Some involved a one-handed, single-edged blade…”

“I think I found something similar to that description a while back.” Hawke stated, rummaging through the collection. “Aha!” She cried, holding aloft the blade.

It was a sabre, of sorts, with its blade about an arm’s length and not even a single hint of rust marring it. The hilt had a simple crossguard and hinted at once having been a matte midnight black, though now it had an odd red tarnish that emphasised the angular lines engraved along it. The handle had was wrapped in black leather that looked like it had seen better days. The pommel was the same material as the guard, with a sigil of sorts carved into the peened bottom.

Shepard received it gently, awed at how right it  _ looked, _ nevermind the actual effectiveness of it. She wrapped her hand around the handle. The balance was perfect, just high enough to allow for power behind a swing, yet not too far, so that it could still dance.

Hawke stole a page from Varric’s pile and held it up by the corners. “Go ahead,” she urged, her excitement barely hidden, “test the edge!”

The scratch of smoothly parting paper filled the room. Not even a single tear. Perfect.

Shepard was familiar with the bubbly feeling in her chest. That moment when a new toy was  _ exactly _ everything you hoped it to be. Hawke had absolutely no restraint, her excited squee causing Varric to flinch.

“Come on ladies, before Aveline comes in here and drags us out by the ears,” he urged. “Hopefully that was a Guild letter you sliced up, and not my latest draft.”

Hawke’s expression turned slightly more serious. “Yeah...she would do that. A pity we don’t have a sheath or scabbard on hand for that thing; I suppose you’ll just need to carry it for now.”

“Hmm, yeah, I suppose that would be troublesome. But hang on.”

She moved the blade over her shoulder until it hovered over the mag-lock her assault rifle normally occupied. She tapped the manual activation switch at her waist. There was a dull ring as the blade stuck to her back. Shepard grinned. Hawke’s brows vanished into her fringe.

“That’s...an interesting armour you have. And here I thought it was just an eccentric design.”

If possible, Shepard’s grin would have grown even more. “Oh trust me. It’s interesting all right.”


	6. Blind Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shoutout to all those that have given me kudos! An even louder one to all those that suffered to comment. It is the lifeblood of my enthusiasm, knowing that others care to take an interest in how I see things.

“Maferoth’s Molars, Hawke. I swear I’m beginning to see the outline of your footprint getting indented on that door.”

Hawke managed to pull off a laugh so classically evil that Shepard had to wonder where she had managed to pick it up. She doubted her...acquaintance would understand the reference to classic movie villains. Then again, if there were dwarves there might be vampires as well, accompanied by Frankenstein’s monster and all. Perhaps an Igor or two.

“All is going according to plan! Soon, the entire city’s entrances will be branded by my heel!”

Varric just sighed and covered his eyes with a gloved hand at her response to his comment. Shepard for her part had picked up that there was more to the dwarf and Hawke’s relationship than they were portraying. Varric’s complaints and arguments were mostly feigned, intended more for entertainment than any true malcontent.

A pang of jealousy mixed with homesickness hit her.  _ Come on Shepard, stop mooning like some hormonal teenager. You’ve survived the majority of your life on your own, this should be old hat. _

If only it were as simple as that. Press a button and revert emotional requirements back to state saved on 08-03-2183 and carry on as if nothing was wrong. Instead, she had been reduced to a cripple. She had been as one blind from birth - ignorant of the beauty that was absent in her life, incapable of missing it. But her eyes had been opened and she felt the yawning loss keenly.

Theirs had never been a fair lot in life, to first only realise what they had in each other towards their promised end. The desperation to make that short time count had flared powerfully, only to leave them almost lost when the end did not come. Then, as if Fate itself was conspiring against them, the galaxy tore them apart again, thinly veiled under a veneer of duty. It was almost laughable how it was that they were flung together again, once more with the promise of death at their heels. Death that had caught up to her. Death that she had embraced. A respite that had once more been stolen away from her.  _ What must Garrus think? _ The errant thought interrupted her fatalistic musings.

How would his turian-trained mind see things? Which thoughts would his ‘bad turian’ nature reject...which would they keep? She had come to rely on his outlook, using it as a crutch and bulwark against the depression that would loom every time the state of affairs became apparent. His view of just how grim things were, but then the almost casual denial to allow those same views to influence his principles.

She wondered where Garrus was.  _ If _ he was...had he survived his wounds? Had he been spared whatever the Crucible had done? Had that been mere hours ago? Or years? How far apart were they? Was he unconscious or sleeping? Was he thinking of her, mere hours after the Crucible had fired? Or had decades already turned her to a passing memory, or centuries his remains to dust? Was he was already waiting for her at that bar?

“-me? Shep! Helooo?”

The Spectre came back to herself as she realised that Hawke was waving at her and making faces. She blinked several times.

“Uh, oh, yes? What?”

“Andraste’s ass, Red, you space out worse than Daisy,” Varric chuckled. “Get your bearings quickly; Aveline sets a lunatic’s pace when something’s ruffled her feathers and I don’t want to leave her alone with the giant ox men for any time at all if it can be helped. There are only two things so much stubborn can lead to if confined to one place.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I was just...reminded of someone.” Hawke raised a brow at that, but did not probe. “And do you have to use that ridiculously cliché name? I’ll have you know that only two people have dared to call me anything but ‘Shepard’ throughout my entire adult life.”

“Well, I guess you could bump that up to three then,” Varric stated, smirking. “Out of curiosity, what were you called those two times?”

“Well…’Shep’ and then one particular jarhead decided I was a ‘Lola’.”

“Hmm, I think I can see why,” the dwarf replied, sounding thoughtful.

“Don’t,” Shepard warned, “even think about it. You don’t have half the required ethnicity.”

“You’re no fun.”

“You haven’t used some strange nickname on Hawke.”

“Ah, but you see, Hawke is  _ Hawke _ . The person and the name are synonymous.”

Shepard smiled, “Well then, you’ve made my argument for me.”

“How so?”

“I would need to explain a crapload of cultural and historical references before any of it made sense…”

“Oh no you don’t!” Hawke cut in, “I may not give a damn about what Varric calls who, but you’re not getting out of  _ that _ one.”

“Can we at the very least put it on hold for now?” Shepard tried to reason, “Unless our destination is  _ hours _ away, I can’t see us having enough time for me to do an explanation justice.”

“You’re really good at trying to get out of something you don’t want to do, aren’t you Red?” Varric laughed.

“Stop...calling...me... _ that,” _ the Spectre demanded through clenched teeth, secretly enjoying herself.

Hawke laughed, “Yes Half-pint, stop calling Red that.”

 

-III-

 

Shepard could not be entirely sure, but it seemed like the stench was getting even worse, a clear indicator that they were getting closer to the city’s harbour, where, Varric had explained, the Qunari compound was located.

The heavy humidity of the lower city, coupled with what was no doubt the final outlet for any functioning sewage systems, lent even more  _ flavour _ to the air. It reminded the N7 a great deal of Omega, Tortuga of the stars. The only place on that station was lacking a stench that could only be attributed to a communal cesspool of dozens of species’ filthiest examples, was Afterlife. Shepard was sure Aria had invested in state-of-the-art air recyclers and perhaps even discreet decontamination fields at the entrances. The asari may have been a ruthless bitch, but even she had standards; or perhaps, she  _ in particular _ had standards.

_ I only take the best; you’re it. _

The Commander was curious about these Qunari. Varric had described them as a race, that while not possessing any true bovine relations, were most easily described as ‘ox men’. Most towered over the average human at about nine to ten feet and sported an impressive set of horns. Of course, for a humanoid body to support a pair of horns, quite a few other physical attributes would have needed to adjust. The Qunari were extremely muscular by nature, in addition to a thicker bone density, to endure the practical application of the protrusions. Another curious outlying attribute was a resistance to most naturally occurring poisons and venoms, their skin hardening into a leather-like state if any toxic substances came in contact with them externally.

At least, that was what Shepard had interpreted from the expletive rich descriptions of battles with Tal-Vashoth Hawke gave. Varric occasionally stepped in to correct her, although Shepard wondered whether he was not simply embellishing the dark woman’s already far-fetched tales.

“Varric, you did  _ not _ pin three grey bastards together. Bianca’s quarrels aren’t even long enough to pin  _ two _ together,” Hawke denied after the dwarf had attempted to add to another of her retellings.

“Are you questioning Bianca’s ability, or my honesty?”

“How are those even mutually exclusive?”

“You risk her ire, Hawke. It’s a thin line between friend and foe.”

“No it’s not, you bare-chinned... _ face! _ There is a  _ massive _ stretch of acquaintance between the two.”

“Speaking of foes. Where do these Qunari stand in regards to, well  _ you _ , and by extension,  _ me?” _ Shepard interrupted, looking at Hawke questioningly, since Varric was too busy trying not to laugh at Hawke’s attempted jibe.

“They stand at ‘ _ no _ , with a chance of  _ pashera _ ’.”

“What Hawke is trying to say is that the Qunari seem to  _ tolerate _ us slightly more than anyone else. Their philosophy really doesn’t allow for much interacting with us  _ bas _ .”

“Bas?” Shepard asked, a brow slowly rising. Her experiences had taught her that Ideologists were always a pain to deal with. Like almost every bastard out there, they were predictable; the only problem was when it came to trying to understand what pattern would need to be used to do the predicting.

“The Qunari make labeling difficult as fuck for everyone who’s not them. Non-cow Qunari are Viddethari, yet still Qunari, somehow. The cows were descendants of the  _ kossith _ but they  _ really  _ don’t like to be addressed as such. Those that leave the Qun are Tal-Vashoth and the cow-men that were born and raised outside the Qun are Vashoth. Otherwise, everything is  _ bas _ . Or if you’re special and good looking,  _ bas-saarebas _ .”

“They name people by their role, opposed to a...what did that one call it? ‘ _ Meaningless string of syllables’ _ ,” Varric added.

Shepard grinned. “You seem awfully eager to impart all this information.”

“Yeah well, the first time I went into that place I had to stop myself from running around screaming ‘What the fuck?’ At the top of my lungs while setting everything in sight alight,” Hawke explained, not betraying a hint of the smile Shepard was expecting to see accompanying a statement like that.

Varric gave an understanding and confirming nod.

“I...see. That may have complicated matters. Back home we’d have called it a ‘diplomatic incident’.”

Varric barked a laugh, “Incident indeed. I like it!”

They reached the bottom of another flight of stairs when Aveline hailed them, standing near what was Shepard’s first example of a Qunari. The large, grey-skinned, horned man standing in front of a rough iron gate with his arms crossed over his bare chest, which was marked with startling red paint. He looked to be frowning at Aveline, but Shepard wondered if that was not simply his natural expression.

“Finally Hawke,” the armoured woman sighed; it seemed she was equally relieved and annoyed; something Shepard could understand after having dealt with her two companions for a few hours. Oddly enough, Aveline reminded her of Ashley, when the marine had spoken of her younger sisters. Aveline was sisterly, but in the same you’re-annoying-but-will-deck-anyone-who-messes-with-you kind of way that Ash had been. Minus a whole bunch of insecurity. Aveline did not seem like a woman who doubted herself.

“Aveline! Care to share why you wanted us to come?”

“I asked for  _ you _ , but I suppose the dwarf and your new friend can come along.” Aveline folded her arms and eyed Shepard’s armour warily. “Just...please be careful. The situation’s delicate.”

“Good, good. Think the Arishok will have tea and crumpets waiting for us?” Hawke asked conversationally as she approached the Qunari standing in front of the gate, seemingly oblivious at how the giant’s expression came ever closer to a point where his brow resembled something used to beat an anvil into shape, rather than to convey expressions.


	7. Lair of the Unbeast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected face makes an appearance.

She could tell that this was no ordinary compound. This was a military camp. The Spectre suddenly had a great deal more reservations about their task.

Aveline had explained to Hawke why they were there. One of her guards had been murdered and the perpetrators had then conveniently joined the Qun.

Shepard felt that there was something off about the whole thing, or at least from how Aveline told it, but the guard was too invested to see that.

The gate had opened smoothly once Hawke had gained allowance to enter the compound, their shabby appearance misleading, the rough iron a facade to the outside world. The gates were actually of thick wood, with the iron nailed onto the front. It was designed either as an act of subterfuge, or to protect the true gates from fire, should they be attacked. The hinges made no noise, indicating good workmanship and maintenance.

The immediate inside of the compound was bare of all but a pair of giant guards standing on either side of the gate. They were holding onto spears only slightly taller than they themselves were. The blades of the spears were about two handspans long, slightly rounded, opposed to flattened and narrow, with long barbs. Shepard was sure they were in truth javelins, but the tassels on the shafts distracted from that point greatly.

It looked like the compound had originally been a small square dedicated to warehousing with its walls actually consisting of buildings. She wondered if some merchant or noble had been forced to relinquish the site, or if it had been in possession of the Kirkwall governors.

There was an obvious presence of patrols on top of the surrounding buildings, with the occasional horned head looking down at them disdainfully before disappearing again.

Ahead of them a building divided the compound into two, with stairs leading up on the left of it, while the right seemed to recess into the ground.

The place’s difference from the rest of the dock-side was apparent, with large swathes of cloth hanging from the walls and roofs of buildings to shade the courtyard. There was no sewage or garbage rotting at the base of buildings and in alcoves. Instead, an evenly thin layer of sand was swept over the stone that served as the floor.

Shepard could see the peaks of tents sticking over the edge of the top of the stairs that led to the left. There was also the rhythmic ringing of a blacksmith’s hammer originating from that area. She was surprised to see one of those people who looked to be related to Merrill run from the lower courtyard up the stairs to where the tents were. 

One of the sentries left his post to escort the small group. Directing them to the recessed area. Hawke and Aveline were in the lead, Aveline seeming on edge with the way her eyes darted about, as if expecting to find someone she would recognise. Hawke on the other hand seemed to go out of her way to be sillier than usual. Using a jaw-dropping expression when she spotted one mundane item, or an almost disturbingly large and artificial one when she spotted something else. Varric’s demeanour interested Shepard the most. His fingers would twitch and his eyes were darting all around them and it looked as if he were talking to himself under his breath. There were two others with them - guards under Aveline’s command.  _ Cops _ . Shepard wondered what she was getting herself into - it was all too reminiscent of when she had gone to recruit Samara. The rock of the law, and the hard place of ideology, lining up like an asteroid heading for a planet.

-

They had passed a small area dedicated to training on their way: a range where some of the Qunari were impaling straw targets with their spears and a ring in which two of the horned men were facing off against one another with quarterstaffs. The Spectre had to admit that the sight of the sweat- and dust-coated figures gracefully, yet brutally sparring reached a part of her that could only be touched by the most primal beauty. It was like the time she had hunted down the alpha varren on Feros. How the muscles had rippled beneath its scaled hide. How its eyes clearly painted her as prey. The adrenalin rush that could only be found in the wild where the only thing that mattered was survival. It was exhilarating. The sparring Qunari did not quite evoke such a sensation, but it was of the same nature. Shepard wondered if this was what it had been like in ancient times, with the Greek Olympics.

Eventually the sentry brought them to where the stairs started to lift out of the recess again, but instead of reaching as high as the other set where the tents had been pitched, this one looked to end earlier, and with how it was framed by large drapes and shades, gave the impression of a dais, with standards of the same red cloth displaying a minimalistic quadrilateral insignia. Adding to the effect was a large low throne, lacking any manner of backrest.

Seated upon the throne was the the most regal example of a Qunari Shepard had yet been presented with. He had the largest pair of horns among the grey giants she had seen as yet, each of them adorned with a golden band that seemed to have been forged onto them. His pointed ears were pierced with angular rings of the same metal. Long white hair hung loosely from behind his horns, the protrusions conveniently holding it out of his face as they curled back over his head. He was bare-chested as well, barring two thick straps of leather that crossed at his midriff to hold up an impressive set of red spaulders bearing the same mark as the standards.

He seemed to wear the same loose pants as the rest of the Qunari did, but with the addition of large, long, loose, heavy leather flaps on the sides, which were held in place by a thick leather belt that reached to cover most of his abdominals. It looked mostly ceremonial, but Shepard could tell that it would be functional as well, considering how the other soldiers were dressed.

There was a rack at the Qunari’s side, where a large sword and axe hung, both of them the size of a two-handed weapon, but judging by the horned man’s size, he would probably be able to wield either of them with a single hand.

Their group came to a halt at the base of the stairs and the atmosphere changed. Patrols atop the rooftops stopped and walked over to observe from their vantage points. The sparring and target practice also came to a halt, as those training turned to observe impassively, more than one pair of arms folding over chests.

Shepard suppressed a shudder as the charged air sent her gut to the void and chest aflutter at the same time. Her body anticipated trouble and adrenaline was already beginning to trickle into her blood.

“Shanedan, Hawke,” the adorned giant greeted. Not even acknowledging the others assembled.

His voice was low, but smooth. It was a voice that did not waste words, but used each one with precision and intent. It was not wielded as a weapon, but like one. Shepard assumed that this was the Arishok.

The N7 observed Aveline. The armoured woman was trying to restrain herself, but Shepard knew that the she was driven by principle and it was only a matter of time before her reason to be here won out.

“Greetings, Arishok,” Hawke answered. Her voice airy, but conveyed a respectfulness that Shepard had not expected of the woman.

“You are here about the Viddathari.”

“Well, I for-” Hawke was interrupted by Aveline who pushed forward, taking a step up to the dais.

“Those so-called converts of yours killed one of my men!” the Captain declared, loud enough that her voice echoed. She continued in a more subdued tone, “We can’t have people thinking that they may commit any crime and hope to get away with it by pretending to convert.”

“You speak of things that do not concern me, bas. I am not responsible for the filthy state of this pustule of a city,” the Arishok responded, standing up and a growl of anger creeping into his voice.

Aveline did not back down, despite the unsubtle warning.

The grey giant grunted, either with annoyance, or approval, likely both. He turned to sit back down and gestured graciously. “Look and see, those that you label as criminals and murderers.”

The party at the foot of the dais looked in the direction he had indicated. A trio of young men had appeared among a small group of the larger horned ones. Even at this distance it was apparent to Shepard how nervous they were.

“Viddathari,” the Arishok addressed, Shepard could tell that it it still took a moment for the three to realise it was they who were being spoken to, she was familiar with the feeling. “Tell these  _ basra _ of your crime.”

Shepard realised that these were also of the same build as Merrill was; another race, like the dwarves?

They seemed to want to disappear. To shrink into the ground or slink back behind the larger, grey Qunari. But one managed to find his resolve. He stood up straight before the small crowd and despite the tremor Shepard could see on his hands, his voice was even.

“Our Sister, she was raped by a  _ guardsman _ . The bastard left her to die afterwards.”

Aveline visibly paled; it was clear she had not expected this. Though as much as it may have shaken her, her principles did not waver. Shepard was impressed.

“Still, why did you not report i-”

“We  _ did! _ ” The spokesperson yelled, cutting Aveline off. “We went to the Hightown patrol. They turned us away, like all  _ shemlen _ .” Shepard had rarely heard such venom used against a group, but if her gut feeling was right, this either confirmed her suspicions of the strangely-proportioned people not being human, or that there was a tier of society that these men were not a part of, but the guards were. Government?

Aveline had been struck speechless. It had been the kind of delivery that normally would have left someone agape; instead the Captain’s mouth was closed, her lips pressed thin and a muscle working in her jaw.

“Tell me, Sirrah Hawke. What would you have done? You who have changed your fortune so,” the Arishok interjected. “A bas forces himself onto Kadan. Would you act as your Kith, or as the Viddethari?”

The question seemed to catch Hawke off-guard, judging by how slack her face went moments before being overshadowed by a thunderous expression. Her blue eyes then were the most vivid Shepard had ever seen in a person, the bright blue seeming almost to spark. It was eerily reminiscent of the optical implants the Illusive Man had had. Her voice was low when she responded, “Do not bring my family into this.”

Aveline seemed to know something more, as she warily eyed Hawke. Varric had abandoned his carefree stance and was - as he had when they first encountered Shepard - now fingering the stock of his crossbow.

Shepard was fighting the urge to assume a defensive stance as well, but she looked first to see how the Arishok would react. Hawke’s words did little more than have him slowly nod. “Your actions answer for you.”

“But they still murdered a man,” Aveline stated, sounding slightly strained, “the Law must act. Else either blood will flow through the Alienage, or the masses will adopt the views that that Petrice woman fostered.”

“Pashaara! More bas that are not of concern to me. That your mobs tear themselves apart is inevitable. It is the way of things not of the Qun. Everywhere I look, I see filth and decadence, like fat dathrasi all work only to fatten themselves. We do not  _ look _ for bas to find their way to the Qun, yet still they come, seeking purpose.”

It looked as if the Arishok was about to continue, but he was interrupted by a loud crash behind Hawke and her group. Everyone whirled around expecting the worst. Shepard’s hand had gone for her sidearm, only to realise that it was of course, no longer there.

Her attempt to hide her failed reaction allowed to see the Arishok’s expression, which had taken on that which she could only assume was a  _ sneer _ .

When she looked to see the cause of the commotion she was surprised to find another horned giant, but this one’s head was shaved, so that his already massive angular horns were even more contrasted. Unlike the other Qunari in the compound, he had none of that red warpaint marking his chest and face. Instead of the very spartan attire of the other Qunari, this one wore a loose pair of striped, voluminous trousers, calf-high leather boots that curled up at the toes and a wide leather belt with an impressively large buckle and a leather shoulder pad of sorts. He also wore an eyepatch where deep scars marked half his face.

The cause for the ruckus had originally been...something made of wood. It was now lying crushed underneath a large bound-iron chest.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the new arrival apologised, his voice just as low and smooth as the Arishok’s, but Shepard could tell there was more to it than that. What it was, was made apparent when the man smiled a toothy grin, “hopefully I’m not interrupting anything important.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Particular thanks to Lord-of-Change, Death7559, MaryTheMango, DarkAngelDisuke, caffeinejunkie00, kalendral99 for their comments on my last update! It's been the most feedback I've gotten for an update to date. :D


	8. Unexpected Parties

“Hissrad,” the Arishok greeted, tirade forgotten. He rested his forearms on his knees and folded his hands. For some reason the gesture had Shepard thinking it the equivalent of a human massaging their temples. It made a strange kind of sense, considering that a Qunari’s temples would have to be almost entirely bone opposed to muscle, compared to a human’s.

“Shanedan, Arishok,” the new arrival replied, bowing his horned head slightly. _Interesting, no salute. He must not be military. Then again, military protocols may not apply here, what with ideological involvement and all._

The exchange that followed was lost on Shepard as the newcomer and the Arishok continued in their native tongue, the latter’s neck stiffening throughout the exchange. Shepard listened to the words used with interest. It sounded almost as if they were using a derivative of arabic, or one of the older asari languages. The flow in particular had a rhythmic cadence to it. She would need to try to program it into her translator....

 _Shit._ Her mind screeched to a halt as that thought hit her. _These people could be speaking any language from several hundred species and centuries and I wouldn’t be able to tell without turning this thing off. I’ll have to try to do that when-_

Any further thoughts on the topic were put on hold as the two giants ended their exchange and the new arrival addressed Hawke.

“A pleasure to finally be introduced to the most fortunate human in Kirkwall,” he opened, single eye glimmering.

“The validity of that statement’s debatable,” Varric stated under his breath.

The newcomer seemed to have head the dwarf despite the latter’s hushed tone and the distance between them. “Indeed it is, Master Tethras.”

Shepard thanked her eccentric espionage trainer for being able to detect how Varric’s feigned nonchalance geared towards suspicion. His hand hadn’t strayed from the stock of his weapon since he had first placed it there, but as they stood there it looked to her like a pose he was maintaining, instead of the promised reaction to any threat it truly was.

If the newcomer had noticed anything, he didn’t show it.

“Not that I mind another glorious specimen of musculature making an appearance, but do you want anything that would prevent our departure?” Hawke asked waving with one arm, “else I’d like to get back to my pustule and have another drink.”

“Very well,” the Arishok stated. “You will leave, but this matter shall be resolved.”

Aveline’s groan was audible.

“Come off it Marigold, I’ll personally come back tomorrow and see what I can do to sort this mess out.” Hawke reasoned.

“Yeah, there’s no reason for me to delay the most infamous Hawke.” The other Qunari answered, “for now.”

“Brilliant. Crew, to the _outside_ of this den of frustration!”

As Shepard followed Hawke she overheard the Arishok address the newcomer once more before Hawke’s attempts to assuage Aveline drowned them out. “Hissrad, what is the purpose of-” _Interesting, Hissrad is a form of address. A title, rank or a name. Whoever this dude is, he’s got to have some clout to distract the Arishok from the problem with the Viddethari; he doesn’t seem like someone to let go of a bone._

“No Hawke, I’m not getting you an eye-patch,” Varric stated, sounding exasperated.

“What?! No, I don’t want an eye-patch for myself. I tried one while working with a merc group back in Ferelden. ‘Look the part,’ y’know? It murdered my depth perception something horrible. Ended up knocking people with the shaft of my glaive instead of the blade.” A thoughtful look crossed her face, “though that did lead to us getting the live bounty, in the one case.”

“Hmph, explains why that Hissrad guy had a monster sword slung behind his shoulder.” Varric mused, “too much blade to miss anything.”

“I’d be curious to see him in action.” Aveline admitted. “One eye less is a great deal of limited vision.” Shepard was surprised by her joining in on the banter. The Spectre had expected her to be bitter about the course of events.

“Now, now, Marigold, you wouldn’t want me to have to tell Donnic that his copper-haired love and commander, is cuckolding him- ouch!” Hawke cut off her teasing when the armoured woman punched her.

The guard-captain just sighed. “You try far too hard Hawke; there has to be some reward for your efforts.” 

“Aveline, a sense of humour? Andraste preserve me,” Varric chuckled, only to also be treated in the same manner Hawke had been.

 

-

 

They reached the Hanged Man just as the sun sank below the cliffs surrounding the harbour. Shepard had discovered through some persistent questioning that the city was built inside an artificial fjord of sorts, the valley having been cut out of the ground centuries ago by a superpower who had dealt in slaves and other distasteful things. The N7 got the impression that they were still around, and largely unpopular.

At least it allowed her to to write off her curiosity about the odd construction of the city to the same segment in her mind that held the Collosus of Rhodes, Pyramids, Easter Island Heads and the Monsters of Id. She would not claim responsibility for the fact that that same part of her mind also labeled each of those items to be annihilated at the next opportunity. The Reapers could take credit for that.

Aveline bade the others farewell, citing that she had to explain what had transpired in the compound to her guards and try to find out what their side of the story was, _exactly_. The Captain could barely come to terms with the fact that there might have been a rapist among them. Shepard did not envy her, or them.

“So, Ladies, what’ll it be?” Varric asked after the woman had left.

“Could we sodomize the Arishok with a ship’s mast and leave him there?”

“I stand corrected. What’ll it be, my Lady Shepard? Disregard anything the lunatic says.”

Shepard quirked a brow, smiling. “I don’t think I’ve ever been ascribed _that_ honorific, Mister Chest.”

“Barbarians, the lot of you.” Varric groused while Hawke succumbed to a fit of giggles managing attempts to pronounce ‘chest’ between gasps.

When it looked like Hawke was about to collapse to the floor in laughter, she suddenly stood up straight, with no hint of humour in her expression. “My thanks for your concern, Master Chest, but I believe the Lady Shepard and I must on our way, for the day is growing old and I am certain that falling forth from looking glasses is harmful to the female complexion without the proper respite following.” The noble airs she suddenly put on almost had Shepard doing a double-take.

Varric did not miss a beat, “Ah yes, of course. My apologies Mistress, please allow me to bid you both a fair evening.”

“Shit Varric, you’re terrible at this,” Hawke commented flatly, returning to her normal self once more.

“One must give one’s best when dealing with the Merchants Guild.”

“One must also get the fuck to bed when one’s armrest is talking Noble.”

Varric’s chuckling was drowned out by the noise from the Hanged man once he opened the door and disappeared inside.

Hawke rolled her eyes at Shepard’s bemused expression. “What can I say? We’re made for each other.”

Shepard followed Hawke up several sets of stairs, the surroundings improving with almost each flight. It was interesting how the city was essentially tiered in every sense, from where people lived to what their social status was. She supposed it was the same back home - with the poor scratching together a living in the alleys and slums, while the rich and powerful lived the high life in skyscrapers. No matter what the setting, society followed these trends.

“Sooo...I’m under the impression you have plans for me? Not that I mind, I just want to make sure they don’t involve dark alleys and pointy objects.”

“Said the thespian to the revered mother.”

“You did not just…”

“Oh I did!”

Shepard tipped back her head and laughed breathily. _This woman is impossible. She may be a few rounds short of a full clip, but damn if she doesn’t somehow put me at ease. Either that or I’m down a full clip and no longer in touch with myself._

She felt that she should probably be intrigued by the shockingly similar expression, but she only felt relieved, like some piece of home was there as well. Whether it was something _left over_ from home, or just that much part of human nature, she could not tell, did not care.

“What I actually thought we would do is head over to my mother’s entirely too massive house, maybe eat a decent meal, and then collapse on wonderfully prepared beds until noon be nigh.”

“I...have absolutely no issue following you into _that_ dark alley with pointy objects.”

“Knew it!”

“Provided there’re no actual dark alleys and pointed objects involved.”

-III-

Jonas pulled his pick from the wood he had suddenly encountered and wiped his brow, not noticing how he plastered his forehead with grime. He was not meant for this kind of work, he was a fighter. Just because the stupid miners had died when that rock demon attacked did not mean their employer could take advantage of them like this.

The fucked up bit was that their Captain had simply gone with it! He did not sign up with this company because they did this kind of labour!

“Anything there, Jonas?” the Captain asked as he walked by, as much a foreman as any had ever been, “or just fucking slacking again?”

The mercenary was smart enough to keep his retort behind his lips, but internally he seethed. “Nuth’n boss, jus’ wood ‘hind this ’ere rock.”

“Idiot,” the Captain drawled, almost managing to hide the excitement creeping into his tone. “wood’s not rock and wood’s not supposed to be down the Deep Roads.”

“What about trees sir, the roots?” Jonas responded, seemingly not believing the Captain entirely.

“Fuck, I don’t have time for this shit.” The man spat before addressing another of those working the rock. “Tavin, see if you can find some axes and get some more men to clear the rock around what this nitwit found; we need to see if this is what the Lady is looking for. I’ll go inform her of the discovery.”

The sound of picks started ringing through the passage once more as the Captain left his men to do the work he had assigned them. He moved to the tent that was the temporary residence of their patron.

He cleared his throat loudly before announcing, “My Lady, the men have struck wood. I believe it may be what you came here for.”

“Excellent, Captain,” a disembodied voice said from behind the tent flap, before it was pushed aside to reveal a woman of staggering beauty. Her features could only be compared to the statues raised to honour the Maker’s bride; they had a flawless, almost sculptured radiance to them. Like the depictions of the prophet, she wore armour - everite that had clearly been forged to fit her specifically, the craftsmanship so good that there were practically no gaps. She pushed her hair behind her ears and pulled on a visored helmet, strapping on a sword as she left behind the tent.

“Show me, then, I would prefer to avoid encounters like the one three days ago.”

“Of course, my Lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Grattitude to Death7559, MaryTheMango and DarkAngelDisuke for being repeat commenters. Weirdsquirrelgirl, nwfairy, celynBrum, Cypher Three and MeraHunt - new commenters are life, thanks :) a special mention to devilwomanc04 who, going by the Kudos notifications, read all of my published works within a day. Dat feel.


	9. Void of Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think I would leave it at that, did you?

“Why are you here?” the woman asks, not looking up from the lectern where a large book lies as she runs a finger across each page. Shepard finds most of her view of the one addressing her obscured by the angle at which the wine-haired woman is holding her head while reading. She is the picture of mystique, with her shoulder-length tresses falling into her face, obscuring it further, along with a dark set of robes that seems to have its shoulders stiffened into something akin to protective padding, but curving upwards into what could only be a purely stylised effect.   _ What is it with this place and big-ass books? _ was the first thing that crossed Shepard’s mind.

“Hell if I know...and where the fuck is ‘ _ here’?” _ The Spectre replies to the woman’s query, folding her arms and sinking into a hip.

The woman breathes a laugh, the sound bordering between amused and mocking. She still does not look up as she responds, but scribbles something down into a margin with a quill that seems to have appeared in her hand from nowhere.“That question is entirely relative.”

Shepard does not move, quirking a brow at the response. The woman is right. She would need more than a  _ where _ to no longer be lost. She would need a where, and its relative location to a place she would recognize.

The N7 was familiar with the concept of whether one was lost or not; she had given it quite some thought traveling through the stars. In truth, the entire galaxy was lost, its only claim to surety of not being, being the location of things that in the ultimate scale of things, they did not actually know. That would only ever change if a true constant were found - a debate on the philosophy of science that she hardly had time for. So she nods, “True.”

“If it is at all a comfort, to me, you are imposing on my study, in the White Spire,” the woman says after a short pause that is once again filled by the scratching of her quill.

Shepard rolls her eyes. “Are you trying to prove your statement, regardless of my assent?”

“Perhaps, though perhaps I am merely testing your response.” ‘The Scribbler’ - as Shepard begins to mentally label her - answers, a smile clear in her voice.

“And what does my response tell you, missy? That I’m getting a teensy bit an-”

Shepard’s response is cut off by a flurry of activity as the other woman literally vanishes and appears before her, moving, a fist engulfed in white flame. But Shepard has not survived all she has by allowing herself to get caught off-guard.

Her left arm swats the burning limb up, catching the Scribbler on the inside of the arm, she then grabs the woman’s forearm just below the elbow and pulls her towards herself.

The grin is almost involuntary as the adrenalin finally hits her -  _ chemical impulses are delayed, electronic are instant, examples of these would be hormones and nerves respectively - _ the world slows into heartbeats. She observes the surprise register on the Scribbler’s face; the woman’s face stiffens, tenses into an expression of hyper focus, instead of slack-mouthed disbelief. The Scribbler is a  _ Fighter. _

Even so, there is little chance of a mere character trait winning out over more than a decade of training and combat experience. Shepard pulls up her knee, noting the telltale gasp of someone getting hit in the solar-plexus as her armoured joint impacts with the woman. The Scribbler falters for just a moment and Shepard uses the lapse to her advantage by letting go of the arm and locking her opponent into a stranglehold. She stops tightening her grip at the first hint of a whimper.

“Now that was entirely uncalled for, not to mention  _ rude _ ,” Shepard spits out. The brief excitement keeps the grin on her face and lends her tone a vicious edge.

The Scribbler struggles meekly, still recovering her breath. “You-” she pants, “you’re different. Not-not a demon.”

Shepard chuckles darkly. “I’m not so sure that everyone would agree with that statement.”

“N- no, you are no denzin of the Fade, you’re dif...different, no demon would react as you just...did. They-they are predictable.”

“Everyone is predictable,” Shepard denies.

“Per...haps, but not...not like demons are.”

“So, were you expecting these ‘demons’?”

“A Mage always expects demons.”

“And you thought I was one of these ‘demons’?”

“You...are  _ different, _ thus I did not rule out the option, and...caution won out.”

“And caution consists of attempting to punch another - fully armoured - person, with a bare sparkly hand. Forgive me if I’m a tad doubtful.”

Shepard feels the other woman chuckling softly at her words. “I never said it was the wise choice.” She pauses. “But normally people are either too surprised to react and get hit, or in the case of a demon, put up a barrier.”

“So you make a habit of punching people?” Shepard queries, shifting her grip so that her limbs do not not fall asleep holding the other woman.

The other woman laughs again, “Only if I suspect them of being a demon in disguise or possessed.”

“You’re talking some crazy exorcist-type shit there lady.”

“I suppose I am, but we do...what we must in the hope that those around us may live a...a more peaceful life.”

“If I let you go, do you promise not to attack me again, or...do any other weird shit?”

The woman locked in her arms nods.

Shepard carefully releases her grip, and quickly steps out of reach, scanning the room to find potential exits apart from the door, marked upon her becoming aware of her surroundings.

The wine-haired woman coughs once, twice, while propped off the floor by one arm. She manages to push herself back to her feet and turns around to look at Shepard directly. Their scuffle has ruffled her hair slightly, but she looks otherwise unaffected.

Her features are pale, currently reddened from their exertions, with freckles smattering her nose and cheeks. Her eyes are a shade of aqua that Shepard thinks are impossible for a human, unless they are either artificially altered, or, well, not human eyes to begin with. Her forehead is marked with a sunburst brand.

Shepard’s eyes widen as the scene she had experienced plays through her mind, but from a different perspective. Men holding her down. The constant chant of nonsensical words flowing through her mind. The glowing blue brand. Pain. The scream. The opening of the sight to see...to see a woman holding her.

The Spectre expects the woman before her to react as Hawke did, when they had shared the vision. She does not; instead her expression turns curious. “So, you are her? I know you.”

“That seems to be becoming a theme,” Shepard replies drily.

“You saved me from the Void.”

“Look lady, I don’t know what the fuck is happening, where I am, or  _ why _ I am. If you’re expecting answers, you’re looking to the wrong person for them.”

The Scribbler laughs. It is an honest laugh, if subdued. “I do not expecting anything. I merely wish to save the others - spare them my fate, my life.”

Shepard looks at the woman without her usual tactical analysis. She is young. Too young. She dismisses any thoughts down that road - the world, life, do not care about age.

“You merely gave the me opportunity to do so. I would not wish to emulate that act; I wish to remove the need for any intervention of such a nature at all,” the Scribbler continues.

Shepard massages her temples out of habit, though in truth there is no pain there. “To be upfront, nothing of what you’re saying makes any sense to me. I mean I understand the  _ words _ , but it’s just word salad to me.”

The other woman laughs again “That is perfectly fine. I merely felt compelled to share that with you. Some day it might matter. When you know more about this place - it is clear to any who know that you are not of this world.”

“No shit, I’m surprised no-one else has called me on it,” Shepard deflects, noting how the woman uses ‘know’ to indicate a group of people. She will need to look into that.

“Perhaps they do not care.”

Shepard redirects her thoughts to Hawke and her associates nodding, they are eccentric enough that her appearance may just have been another weird thing in the grand scheme of ‘shit’s fucked up.’

“You are fortunate. The life I lead is one of masks,” the Scribbler comments, before turning back to where her tome still lies open on the lectern. “Do you intend to remain here now?” she asks as she heads back to her prior station, a quill once more appearing in her hand. “I cannot promise that you will be safe.”

“Uhhh….”

As Shepard is about to respond, there is a loud crash and the world wavers and disappears.

 

-III-

Shepard rolled to the side and off the bed before her eyes had fully opened, hitting the wooden floorboards with a jarring impact, clad only in the nightgown Hawke’s maid had supplied. Ignoring the pain, she moved up into a crouch, half-kneeling behind her bedframe and eying the door.

The dream she had was still burning in her mind. It was more akin to a memory than an actual dream.  _ Did that actually happen? Then, or was it something from before and I only recalled it now? _

When there were no immediate noises beyond her doorway, she began to doubt that she had actually heard anything that would wake her, but she moved to don her undersuit and armour regardless.

She had spent the night in Hawke’s townhouse, at first surprised to learn that the eccentric woman was in fact nobility. It explained the quality of her gear though, and the educated mind the woman kept obfuscated behind the facade of crazy.

Shepard was still in the dark about a great deal of things, having been too tired the previous night to focus on anything more than wolfing down a bite to eat and dropping into the bed in the provided room.

She had just locked in her chest-plate when another crash like the one that had woken her came through the window. But it wasn’t a crash, it was a boom - a sonic boom. Something was happening in what seemed to be a late-medieval society that was breaking the sound barrier. She spared the opening to the outside a glance hoping perhaps it would just be fireworks. The leaded glass windows were ajar, still obscuring most of her view of the outside beyond simple light and blurred colours.

Picking up her vambraces and gauntlets she shoved one under an arm while she fitted on the other, briskly walking to the door and the central chamber of Hawke’s home. The maid was halfway up the stairs, seemingly with the intent of finding her.

“Mistress Shepard! Please, you must seek shelter, word on the streets is that the Qunari are attacking!”

Shepard had no intention of taking any shelter if there was fighting afoot, in a city that offered up far too many innocents as victims, but the maid looked terrified, so Shepard gently took her by the arms after locking in her last gauntlet. “Look-”

“Orana.”

“-Orana, I am the last person to seek out shelter, can you take care of yourself and Hawke’s  mother?”

Shepard had been introduced to the Amell-Hawke matriarch upon their arrival the previous day. It had been clear that the woman worried about her daughter constantly, despite Sorana’s seeming ignorance to the fact. The older lady, while already greying, still had ‘nobility’ written as a subtext in each word she spoke, in the posture she held, and it was the character trait, not the lineage that seemed to define it. Cosying up to that was the subtext of ‘mother’ that Shepard was very familiar with, when dealing with her own.  _ That _ had of course led her down another painful line of thought. She firmly refused to think about her mother and the graveyard of shipwrecks orbiting the earth. Hannah had been with the  _ Shield _ fleet, that protected the Crucible, but the battle had continued to rage around the Citadel as the giant constr-... _ stop...thinking. _

“Yes, there is a passageway in the Cellar that-”

“Okay, good, you do that. Take care of Lady Hawke, or whatever you call her, and I’ll go see what sense I can make on the streets. But first, where’s Hawke?”

Shepard’s question was answered for her when the door leading outside of the house burst open and Hawke tromped into the antechamber, fully armoured and carrying her glaive. Shepard swore that she could see some sort of shimmering aura around the woman, but it was not distinct enough for her to be entirely sure.

“Good, you’re up!” the raven-haired woman said by way of greeting. “Your  _ diplomatic incident _ happened - the city is rolling over, belly up with a bunch of crazy-ass cows running through it, making a right mess. Want to tag along? I promise there’ll be plenty of death and dismemberment.”

Shepard grinned, closing her eyes and shaking her head. While her first thought had been  _ ‘Panic, save everyone!!!! _ ,’ Hawke approached it as  _ ‘Wooo, die fucker!!!!!’ _ The woman had to be related either to Jack, Wrex, or Grunt. She could work with it.

“Finally, something I understand. Lead the way Madame Sosatie-stick.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes in an almost comical fashion, “I hope you’re not making fun of Felix here, he has a terribly fragile self-image.”

“Felix?”

“I needed someone to give Bianca competition.”

“ _ Bianca? _ ”

Hawke sighed. “Nevermind, I’ll get Varric to explain once all this shit is over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this meet your demands, Lady Dragon? I ADDED THE BUTTON (for the previous chapter at least :P)
> 
> A general note: My Shepard is Systems Alliance-ian (That's a term now!) and my Systems Alliance is Human (Terran? Earthian?). I'll try to represent as diverse a culture as a true space-faring civilization would in reality have, if not accurately, by at least paying it homage to diversity, considering that one of the only nods that the game itself gave was Samesh Batia. _(What?! Culture?! Religion?! Tradition?! How dare you even consider that in a sci-fi universe!!!)_
> 
> Where is Moscow in the Reaper War? Where is Beijing? Where are Perth, Dubai, Jerusalem, New Dehli, Tokyo and Berlin?
> 
> If anyone has any cool ideas regarding this, throw it into the comments, I'll see if my Shep can reference it here. If I can't fit it into this fic, I'll see if I can slot it into my 'puritan' ME fic - Valkyrie's Song (When I finally get around to writing that again). This means anything: Food, weirdass traditions you just like, local fashion, art, music, you name it.


	10. Blood and Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Death7559, TheMaryDragon, Hep0katti and Ynvildr the Voracious for commenting, ‘tis one of the sweetest things to see in one’s inbox!

The heavy polished door closed behind them and Shepard could hear as Orana pulled the bar into place. There was shouting further down the street they had come up from the previous night, the sources hidden from sight by the many sharp turns and corners the city’s stair-ridden streets took.

People were rushing past, fear and panic apparent on their faces. Shepard watched as a woman dressed in fine silks shouted shrilly at three or four servants who had taken flight, somehow unable to comprehend that it was in her best interest to follow after. Shepard watched as two dirty children ran by, a boy and a girl. The girl, looking to be about half the age of the boy fell. The boy ran back and tried his best to lift her up again, small limbs straining and pulled her off again until they vanished among legs of the others fleeing. Shepard watched as a man carried a bloodied bundle in his arms, legs carrying him as fast as he could go. His face was pale with streaks from his eyes marking the thin layer of dust he was covered in. Shepard watched as a woman knelt over the body of a man, screaming her lungs out. Shepard watched as two guards tried to direct the flow of people, their shouting voices barely managing to hide a quiver. Shepard watched as the first grey muscled form appeared from around the corner. Strong-featured face expressionless, pale eyes boring into them.

The woman’s screams stopped abruptly, interrupted by a tassled spear.

“Apparently,” Hawke bit, “this is the appropriate response to the Arishok finding out he’s been dealing with, not a  _ basalit’an _ but a  _ bas’saarebas _ , all this time.”

Shepard watched the woman’s face, how her eyes twitched and nose almost pulled back. How her teeth bit into her lower lip until blood stained them. Shepard watched.…

It was like a surreal dream, this feeling. Everything was going to hell again. Just like on Earth. Just like on Elysium, Torfan, Horizon, Palaven, Thessia and the Citadel. Just like on Mindoir.  _ Father…. _

Shepard brushed her sleep-mussed hair out of her eyes, trying to brush away the memories as well. She would no longer  _ watch _ .

Gripping the hilt of her new sword, she strode forwards, stopping at the top of the stairs the Qunari were ascending. Her expression was thunderous, emerald eyes glinting with controlled fury. She didn’t hear the low, dangerous laugh that was Hawke’s response.

“Halt!”

The clear voice of Command that had once had an entire galaxy at its beck and call rang out, causing even the Qunari to pause, despite it coming from a  _ basra _ .

“Stop this madness right now. Explain yourselves! Is this what your philosophy requires? Innocent blood?”

The leading grey giant shook his head, and the ones following him continued as they had been. Moving forward with crisp military precision, yet with a strange primal grace, they cut down anyone in their path, swiftly closing the distance between them and where Shepard and Hawke waited.

Shepard heard Hawke say something to the two guards that looked torn between drawing their weapons and joining the other refugees. They nodded gratefully and disappeared as well, so that the small square in front of Hawke’s house was now empty.

“So be it.”

Shepard did not watch the grin appear on Hawke’s face at her words. No, she watched the now five horned men approaching her. Blood dripping off their weapons. Staining their pants dark and splattering their pale and painted skin crimson. She watched their expressionless faces and gritted her teeth harder with each step they took.

Then she stopped watching, and acted.

-

Never underestimate your opponent. It’s an old rote. Passed on from veteran warrior to cadet through the ages, whatever their arena may be: the art of business, the art of subterfuge, the art of politics, or the art of killing.

Shepard knew what it was like to be underestimated. She knew that a bully twice her size could be decked when punched in the solar-plexus. She knew that an assassin would be hard-pressed to take her down by force, no matter how many friends he had. She knew that mercenaries were by-and-large  _ stupid _ . She knew that giant, grey, horned men would not expect a human woman of average build and height to have cybernetically-enhanced muscle fibres and bone density -  _ the only fuckers that expected  _ that _ were Timmy’s dog-spawn _ .

She  _ guessed _ that they would not have a clue as to what ablative armour with motorized joints could do.

She  _ hoped _ that Hawke would back her up, however she was able to.

She  _ wished _ she did not know that what she was planning would be a monument to tactical idiocy.

The Qunari had reached the bottom of the flight she had stopped at. They were well trained. They did not wait to let themselves be distracted, charging up the flight without so much as a pause, a bristling wave of steel and blood-stained grey muscle.

And then they were not.

The lead Qunari split off from his companions, charging with his spear low. Shepard crouched down and as the weapon drew near palmed it hard from the side, so that it deviated just enough to deflect off the strip of armour that covered her belly instead of plunging into the side of her chest. She huffed at the impact, but knew it would probably not even bruise. She followed her first move with a second: swinging the pommel of her sword into the forehead of her attacker.

There was a loud  _ crack  _ and a wave of invisible energy threw the Qunari back. Shepard’s eyes grew wide with surprise for a heartbeat, before she moved to defend herself from the next attacker, only to find that he had been staggered by whatever the sword had done, and she used the opportunity to slice him diagonally across the chest, the attack spraying her with crimson.  _ Fuck, I thought Hawke said their skin’s supposed to be as hard as steel. _

She spared a moment to see how her host was faring, only to be even more surprised than when the sword erupted.

The raven-haired woman was either  _ really _ enjoying herself, or in some mad frenzy. Her eyes were wide enough to show the whites, with pupils dilated. The thin blue ring of iris that remained shone brightly, the way Shepard had only seen Samara’s do when she had made her oath. That coupled with her reddened teeth and too-wide grin painted a frightful image.

There was far more to Hawke than Shepard had anticipated, and it was not biotics. All the little tells, the small things that were off that she had noticed, suddenly made sense.  _ She’s a fucking mage, Shepard. Like Gandalf and Harry Potter and shit… _

Hawke’s hands were wreathed in flames that coated her glaive _ -staff _ -as well, creating a whirlwind of fire as she fought back the Qunari who had moved to oppose her. One was already lying dead on the floor, charred and missing an arm and a whole lot of torso. The ones who were alive seemed to have expressions of rage and fear etched into their features, yet they still moved to bring Hawke down.

Shepard had to dodge out of the way of a blow, forcing her to focus on the task at hand. She ducked as another swing came for her head, her most vulnerable spot. She was being attacked by the two remaining grey giants who had not focused on Hawke, clearly seeing her as the lesser threat despite their comrades’ early deaths.  _ That  _ was when it was  _ Shepard’s  _ turn to grin.

The next blow that came for her she caught, the shock making her fingers ache a little, but she had her attacker in bad position. Instead of letting go, as she had expected he would, he kicked her. She fell backwards, pulling the spear and its wielder with her. They rolled apart, down the stairs, coming to rest on one of the flattened areas between flights that allowed people to catch their breath between the unending levels of the city.

Shepard pushed herself up, grateful for her armour for what had to be the millionth time. The Qunari she had pulled with her curled up his legs and extended them again quickly,  _ hopping _ onto his feet from where he had been lying.  _ Fucking acrobatic fuck _ .

The Spectre was already moving, and by the time the Qunari was able to face her she already had her blade lodged in his lower back, all the way to the hilt.  _ Kidneys, same place: check. _

Her weapon was wrenched from her grasp though when she tried to avoid her other attacker, the sword too deeply lodged in her most recent opponent.

She was kept on her back foot, driven towards the wall by powerfully large swings as she dodged one attempt on her life after another. When her back hit the sandy stone, she shrugged to the right just enough for the Qunari’s blade to dig a chip out of the stone and lodge itself between her chest and shoulder armour, glancing at it as it landed. She realised her opportunity, grabbed onto the haft of the weapon and lifted her legs, using one to kick the Qunari in the face on its ascent.

One of the things that everyone underestimated about Shepard was how much she weighed. She may have had the height and apparent build of an average woman, but she had the tone few soldiers could boast of  _ -she had beat Vega in fisticuffs  _ and _ pull-ups after all- _ and on top of  _ that _ , was stuck full of cybernetics and bone-weave. She also wore armour that had a mass about a third of her own.

The Qunari released its weapon.

Shepard hit the floor with her shoulder, head barely missing the wall behind her, and rolled onto her feet in time to see her opponent remove his hand from his nose - face bloodied and furious.  _ Finally, some feeling from you bastards…. _

She did not revel in it. She stuck her new acquisition right back into its former owner.

The Spectre looked over to where she had last seen Hawke, only to witness the other woman let go of the face of a Qunari who had been on his knees. The grey giant toppled backwards down the stairs, following a river of blood that was slowly creeping down each step in a macabre curtain.

The raven-haired woman shook back her hair, though the gesture did absolutely nothing to change the position of the spunky style she sported, which had her blowing past her nose to get a strand out of her eyes.

Shepard moved to retrieve her sword where it had been buried under the Qunari she had impaled. After she had retrieved her weapon and wiped it clean on the closest piece of cloth she could find, she carefully climbed back up the stairs, trying not to step into the pooling blood.

“I knew you knew how to handle yourself!” Hawke exclaimed, clapping her hands together, “Should have seen the look on your face when the rune on the sword activated. Priceless!”

“Uh, yeah…you should see the other guy.”

Hawke laughed.

“What was that, anyway?”

“Enchantement! As Sandal would excitedly tell you, though I should probably have checked it for one before offering it to you just like that,” Hawke explained. “Still worth it though.”

“Enchantment, of course,” Shepard confirmed, rolling her eyes.  _ Maybe I’d have guessed enchantments existed if I knew mages did. Explains the sound-ward though. _

Any further post-battle analysis was interrupted though when a new voice drifted up to them from the bottom of the stairs: “Hawke.”

Both women turned around to see the new arrival. It was the Arishok. Flanking him were two giants wearing golden masks, their lips sewn shut, horns filed off and loose sets of chains dangling from a large iron collar.

Behind them were at least twenty other Qunari, these wearing helmets with grilled visors and wielding shields.

“You shall no longer spew your corrupting lies and filth, bas’saarebas,” the armoured leader of the giants stated, “You will die.”

“Shit.”

Shepard couldn’t agree more.

“Run!”

Shepard ran.

“Sten, Saarebas, katara bas’saarebas!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://archiveofourown.org/works/3774367/chapters/15433360 - I’ve also had the privilage to write a ‘guest’ chapter for my good friend coffeeguru, for her story “Where Legend Remains.” Her writing is brilliant and you should totally check it out like, yesterday.


	11. Dangerous Thing

Hawke led her in the opposite direction of where most of the civilians had run off to, heavy booted footfalls never far behind them. She wound through alleys and false dead-ends, clearly more familiar with the streets than the back of her hand. Shepard had never understood that expression, though it seemed appropriate as they raced through the narrow alleys and close pedestrian roads, which would suddenly open up into wide market squares and boulevards.

Shepard was pleased to find out that despite the pain she had been in the previous day, she seemed not to have lost any significant measure of fitness from when she had last been active.  _  Push off, one foot after another, you can do it Eris, it’s only pain -  _ she pushed the intruding images aside, it was not the time. A traitorous errant thought still managed to surface that had her wondering how she was no longer in that state, if not worse off  _ \- focus Marine! You’re supposed to be N7 dammit. _

They finally reached an open square that seemed oddly secluded, walled off by tall townhouses on all sides except for where the road entered.  _ Shit. _

Hawke was breathing slightly more heavily than Shepard, which the redhead thought was only reasonable considering the alterations her own body had gone through. Hawke actually seemed remarkably fit for an average human in a pre-industrial society. Not that average was a word she would typically use to describe Hawke.

“Hooo, a good run is always nice. Especially when we have someone else to play tag with,” the mage quipped.

“Do you take anything seriously?” was the only response Shepard could think of.

Hawke scrunched her face into a thoughtful expression, “Felix. I take Felix seriously.”

“Huh?”

“Felix! My staff, you dunderhead, you know, I introduced you earlier?”

“Ah, yes, Felix.”

Both women turned to look in the direction they had come from when the footfalls that had been following all that time finally came to a halt behind them.

“You can apologise later,” the raven-haired woman stated graciously. Shepard could not tell if she was being serious or not. “But for now, let’s entertain our guests. I do believe we’ve managed to nab ourselves a rather nicely isolated room.”

Shepard realised then that all that time Hawke had been leading them to a place where nobody would be caught in the crossfire….  _ Fuck me. Crossfire? Mage? What I wouldn’t do right now for a gun. Considerate of the Loony though - hah,  _ me _ , thinking of someone as a loony. Shepard, what have you gotten yourself into? _

Their pursuers were led by one of the Qunari bearing a shield, face mostly hidden by the grilled visor of his helmet. He held forward a large, thick copper rod that had Shepard looking from it to Hawke questioningly.  _ Is that an electrode? Is this a mage-counter-thingy? _

Hawke snarled, her stance immediately turning aggressive and eyes glowing once more.

The Qunari standing behind the leader parted as the two masked ones emerged again, their brutalised features whispering a warning that the Spectre could only guess at. She did not need to guess long, as an orb of energy appeared in the one’s palm and the other convulsed, a shimmering aura appearing around him.  _ More mages...guess that explains the running _ .

The energy was launched towards Hawke, just as the other Qunari catapulted into the air, vanishing in a flash as he reached about two stories worth of altitude.

Before Shepard could look around to where the mage had disappeared to the block of soldiers that filled their only exit surged forward, forcing her to give them her attention.

 

As the row of shield-bearing Qunari advanced it became clear that the method she had employed earlier would not work. While she attacked one, she would be attacked by two others who would simultaneously be defending the one she would be attacking. It filled her with gratitude that the Reaper ground forces had never been that organised, something that struck her as odd, everything considered.  _ So much for ascension. _

She needed an advantage if she was to survive, something more than her equipment, prowess and wits. She needed guerilla options in a closed-off courtyard with no terrain advantage.

There was an odd pop to her side as Hawke deflected the projectile cast at her, using her staff. Whatever energies it consisted of, the orb exploded with the same sound that had first woken her when it impacted against a wall. The seamless wall cracked and cratered.  _ Note to self, don’t touch the shiny. _

There was a sound that reminded her of an airlock opening above her and she barely managed to roll to the side as the bulk of the Qunari that had vanished in the air slammed into the ground where she had been standing a moment before. The move had forced her away from Hawke and she was a great deal closer to the steadily advancing line of shields. Her options were growing fewer with every breath.  _ Shit girl, you just going to roll over and die when Fate’s not kind enough to stick a gun in your palm? _

She tested the grip of the blade in her hand; she could not afford to do anything that would probably leave her too drained to do anything else for the rest of the day.

She made her move as Hawke deflected another of the projectiles. Whether it was planned or not, the glowing missile crashed into the centre of the advancing formation sending the two Qunari that had been at the centre of the blast flying back into their comrades, just as those next to them were staggered to their knees. 

The break she needed.

Shepard charged forwards, sword arcing upwards, then back, taking two down: the one staggered, and the one next to him. Her next swing was interrupted by a shield. She had expected to deal with shock  trying to dislodge her grip, but it was minor, allowing her to step back just in time to block a strike at her torso without losing the weapon.

Hawke on the other hand had not moved an inch from where she had turned to face their opponents. She spun in an acrobatic move that would have made any breakdancer jealous, but instead of cheering onlookers, her result was a cone of sharp icicles shooting out of the ground around her, impaling the mage, the one that had initially tried to land on Shepard, through the gut. She finished with a flourish that was punctuated by a bolt of electricity connecting with one of the soldiers who had been a part of the advancing formation. The man’s scream - muffled as it was by the stitches holding his lips together - was the first sound Shepard had heard from the grey giants in battle, and it set the hair on the back of her neck on end. Two of his companions grunted as sparks arced between them and their companion for a moment, but beyond that, none of the horned men reacted the the electrocution of their ally.

There was a commotion from beyond their lines, but Shepard could not see past their towering ranks. Her attention was entirely focused on the Qunari that had blocked her earlier blow as he retaliated.

The diamond shield crashed into her, the force almost lifting her off her feet. The Qunari’s blade snaked out from around it, but bounced off her breastplate; the impact still staggered her though and would likely leave a bruise.

Her armour had saved her and the horned man’s miscalculation proved to her advantage. She slammed the pommel of her weapon into his exposed shoulders. The same force as before rippled out, throwing the Qunari to the ground with an audible crunch.

She was not fast enough to meet the next attack aimed at her, though.

Hawke was sowing chaos with bolts of electricity and missiles of fire that exploded into molten slag where they hit, scorching enemies and the walls of buildings around them alike. Her assault had broken the Qunari line, forcing their foes to split up and try to get to her on their own. One had gone for Shepard.

The Spectre felt several ribs break as a massive force hit her from the side, lifting her off her feet and throwing her several yards. She tried to angle her landing, but still jarred her shoulders with the impact. The new pain in her chest exploded, leaving her panting quick short breaths.

She had to push herself backwards, scraping across the rough cobbles, to evade the next swing. Her opponent was wielding a monstrosity of an axe, the metal grinding sparks across the floor after it cut through the air where she had been a moment before.

He did not relent, first kicking the weapon from her hand - the dark metal object clattering loudly - then hitting her face with a follow-up from the other foot. She felt the skin of her cheek split, pain flaring again.

She pushed back, trying to get away from her attacker, but he easily kept up, still being upright. His face was as expressionless as ever, pale eyes boring into hers. She saw the muscles of his chest ripple as he brought the axe around again.

_ Time to pray that whatever got me here didn’t only consider the armour. _

On the other side of the courtyard, the air literally  _ thrummed _ with the energies gathered around Hawke. The commotion on the other side of the Qunari lines was practically on top of them, yet still, the axe-wielder focused only on Shepard.

The axe fell. Blue light flashed. Blood painted the walls. A voice screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The previous chapter had some nice feedback! Thanks to Yelma for making their presence known, Death7559 and Kiyannah for pointing out a glaring issue, MaryDragon for comments with the most heart, MaryTheMango for the affirmation, dreams2reality for the kind words and Valauthiel for deviating from the norm.


	12. Familial Encounters

She was half-crouched, bathed in a steady amber glow. The Qunari on the other end of her arm gave an odd sigh as life escaped his impaled body. She deactivated her omni-blade and the giant slipped off her fist. Shepard made a face and flicked her armoured hand to try and dislodge as much of the gore that remained as she could.

All fighting seemed to have ceased as soon as Shepard launched her desperate bid for survival.

Hawke was giving her a strange look, though, seeing how she herself was splattered with at  _ least _ a litre of blood, Shepard paid her no heed and tried her utmost to ignore the part-frozen, part-incinerated, or simply part- _ missing _ ox men littering the floor around the staff-wielder. She doubted one would have been able to make more than two whole bodies out of what had originally been at least five or six.

“I see that our intervention was not entirely necessary.”

Shepard looked to the source of what could only be a masculine French-accented voice. She wondered if her translator was to blame for that or if the bugger really  _ did  _  have a French accent. The new arrivals seemed to have been the commotion at the rear of the Qunari lines, that they cut through the Qunari so fast despite their tactical advantage spoke volumes. These had to be professionals.

They were geared in what looked to be mail, enhanced by steel plate emblazoned with designs of a griffon bearing a chalice. Accenting their resplendent armour, rather tastefully, were royal-blue tabards.

“But as we have suffered a casualty in our attempt to do so, please would you aid us ser mage.”

Their spokesperson sported the most magnificent moustache, a facial growth that would have been more at home in the nineteenth century than anything Shepard had yet encountered.

Hawke replied before Shepard could discern why  _ she _ was the one being addressed. “Yes of course, as good a time to repay my debt as any.”

The man looked from Shepard, to Hawke, who had already marched past him, clearly confused, but he recovered quickly and looked to Shepard again. He nodded curtly before turning briskly to follow Hawke.

_ Oh...yes, that probably looked like magic. _

Any further thoughts were cut off by a profane string of expletives - at least that’s what Shepard thought they were - drifting over to her in Hawke’s voice. “No seriously,  _ fuck you, you fucking shit-brained twat!” _

Shepard had gotten just close enough to hear the weak response, “Hello to you too, Sister.”

 

-III-

The Lady was a demon, Jonas was sure of it.

They had toiled to clear away the debris around the wood he had found, only for it to be revealed that it was, in fact, an entire tree. It had taken a while before they had cleared away enough towards the top for branches to show through the rock and dirt. The same could be said for the bottom, where they uncovered roots.

Somehow this had pleased the Lady greatly, which in turn simply seemed to spur the Captain to push them even harder than he had already been.

Maker’s ploughing whore, he wished he had never signed up to this company; even his sword was starting to show spots of rust after him not having any time to clean it recently, too tired from all the physical labour to bother.

He had lost count of the number of days they had been down here, yet strangely, after the incident with the rock-creatures, they had not once had another situation in which they were attacked.

There had been times where sounds drifted down through tunnels, that had the men whispering that the darkspawn were about to attack, merely biding their time to surround them and cut off all forms of escape.

But then the Lady came out of her tent and walked into the darkness surrounding them. She did not even take a torch. The first time it had happened there had been talk of abandoning the job: no boss, no pay, no reason to stay.

But then just as the first group of dissenters had worked up the courage to try and sneak away that night, she had returned, herself not looking to have a hair out of place, nor dent marring her everite plate, but was dripping with black liquid that had several men throwing up their last meals.

Jonas knew that smell. It was taint. The Lady returned from what looked to have been a bath in darkspawn blood, yet a week later, she still showed no signs of corruption.

The men whispered that she was a Grey Warden. Jonas did not believe so. She was a witch. A ‘Spawn-ploughing  _ demon. _ But the captain would have none of it, using violence to keep the men in check when the promise of treasures did not.

He was beginning to believe that they would all die down there. That was when the first of the slaves arrived.

 

-III-

“Maker, Carver, the moment I take my eyes off you, you manage to get yourself skewered.” Hawke muttered, teeth gritted as her hands glowed a brilliant gold over the man lying on the floor, suffusing his chest with light.

He coughed, rolling his eyes. “It’s been  _ three years, _ Sister; the only time I got skewered was when I got even remotely close to you again.” His words rang with the sound of an old argument.

The glow of Hawke’s hands spluttered for a breath, before returning even brighter than before. She said something too quiet for Shepard to hear, but had the man - her brother - quickly schooling a guilty look off his features.

“So this is the fabled older sister of his,” the moustached man said, stepping up to stand next to Shepard. She in turn afforded him a sideways glance. His facial hair truly was magnificent. Unlike anything she had seen outside the records detailing Earth’s First World War. She wondered if, like Imperial Britain, they also had a military that stipulated requirements for facial hair in protocol.

“It is near all he speaks of when recounting his life before the Wardens, young Carver. If his stories had not been so laced with jealousy at the start, one may have mistaken them for a fiction.” The armoured man then turned to Shepard, bowing slightly, “But I must apologize for my rudeness, I am known as Warden Stroud.”

Shepard was surprised by how polite he was, considering that they were in a city that had moments before turned into a battlefield. She decided to return the favour, it was the least she could do in light of their timely intervention. “Most people call me Shepard.”

She noted the question in his raised brow.

“Family name.”

Her brief explanation seemed to answer whatever had gone unasked, but she did not miss the calculating look he gave her when he thought her attention turned back on Hawke.

“Sirrah Hawke, we thank you for your understandable desire to help, but we must on your way. Warden Carver should now be recovered enough for us to continue.”

Hawke whirled around, straightening up so fast that she nearly left an afterimage of herself behind. Her hands still glowed as she prodded Stroud’s breastplate, “Now listen here: that tit there’s my  _ brother _ . I’ll as much let him die from his wounds now as I did back when he was first exposed to the taint.”

“I understand my Lady-”

“I ain’t your  _ lady!” _

“Sister, please-” Carver managed, trying to push himself up.

She turned from Stroud to push her kin back to the floor, “Oh no you don’t. You’re not getting up until you’re ready to dance a remigold marathon.”

“Sister  _ please _ .”

Hawke stopped her fidgeting abruptly. Stared at nothing.

“I swore an oath...one you practically forced me to swear,” he held up a hand to silence whatever she was about to say, “and you were right. I know you still think there was something you could have done for Beth, but no mage, not even one as powerful as yourself, has the ability to change the past.” He took her hand, which was not quite  _ not _ shaking, “Things are now as they should be and I am my own man. I can look after myself even after getting pounded at by some horny bastard.”

Hawke made a sound that was torn between a sob and a laugh, “Of course you’d put it  _ that _ way. So much for my hopes of nephews and nieces.”

Carver made a  wry face, “Well I didn’t mean it like  _ that.” _

“Of course not, but...I think I understand.”

“It’ll be alright, I even learned a few tricks since I’ve been away,” the dark-haired man chuckled as he wiggled his fingers at his sister.

Hawke’s eyes grew wide, “That smite was  _ you?” _ She looked torn for a moment before she grabbed his arm and hoisted him to his feet, only to punch him in the arm once he was standing, “You little  _ bitch!” _

Carver only gave a breathy laugh, but then looked to Stroud and grew serious. He looked to Hawke and placed a hand on her shoulder, addressing her solemnly, “Look after Mother, will you?”

He gasped as she pulled him into a fierce hug.

“Of course,” her answer muffled against his tabard, “you just don’t get dead. This solemn Warden shit doesn’t seem to let you whine as much as you used to.”

He returned the gesture, albeit somewhat more tenderly, favouring the side she had just healed.

After they separated Hawke turned to address Stroud, “Look after the little shit, or I’ll be forced to hunt you down.” Her manner was so disarming that it took a moment for Shepard to realise that she had actually threatened the moustached man.

“I understand,” was his only response. To which Hawke nodded and marched back to the more open streets.

“Write me a letter or something next time you decide to learn new shitty Templar tricks, or I might think you’re out to get me!” she called to Carver over her shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

Shepard made to follow her but was halted by the younger Hawke. “Please Sirrah, I do not know what your relationship is to my Sister, and I would not want to overstep my bounds. But I have seen you fight. Sorana is skilled in getting herself into trouble and I would appreciate it if you look out for her on my behalf.”

The Spectre only nodded. “So long as it is in my capacity to do so, and she doesn’t give me reason not to.”

Carver chuckled, shaking his head, “I fear that her character might sooner give you a reason not to, but she has a way with people that nearly always seems to work in her favour. So I will accept your answer as the best I can expect from a stranger.”

With that Shepard nodded her farewell to Stroud and hurried to see where Hawke had disappeared to. The sound of the Wardens preparing to set out once more following her down the alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On comments: Yes, you Marys are confusing...keep it up :P. Hep0katti, ramble moar! Valauthiel, yes, you’re getting mentioned again owo. Death7559, that would be fun, but a tad ‘game-breaking’ xD. CAEK, you’re alive! Moar pretzels pls :0
> 
>  
> 
> _ALSO: All you you mofos git your ass over to[coffeeguru's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeguru) fic [Where Legend Remains](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3774367/chapters/8388889). On my honour, you can trust it to be a worthwhile read!  (and while it may be a DA fic, there might just be a surprise cameo for you ME fans that head over) Give teh Cofe some comment love mens._


	13. Tag. You're Dead

“Fucking nitwit,” Hawke mumbled to herself as they ascended yet another flight of stairs. Shepard was agreeing with her own assessment earlier that this place and stairs had the same relationship as the Citadel had with elevators.

They did not encounter any more enemies, but there were many buildings where the doors were closed and barred, and the windows shuttered. Every odd few they would encounter one where the doors had been broken down, with either blood pooling out of the entrance, or smoke pushing its way out, or both. On one occasion they even encountered a building where the entire front wall had been blown inwards, crushing everything that had been inside the building. Shepard knew she might have asked what kind of explosive might have done that, but she had seen Hawke in action enough to know that it had not been an explosion of the conventional sort. So she kept the question to herself for the time being, but was growing increasingly concerned as to where the limits of this supernatural force were.

“What was that...thing, you did to that Qunari?” Hawke asked eventually, interrupting her thoughts. “I’ve tried to think of all possible explanations, but the only one I can concretely rely on would be something like a Knight Enchanter’s blade.”

Shepard had been expecting the question ever since she had seen the look in Hawke’s face at the end of the fight, but had not yet decided how she could tackle the answer. How do you explain a disposable silicon-carbide flash-forged blade, that is nearly diamond hard, transparent, suspended over the user’s skin by a mass-effect field and illuminated with warning lights to someone from a pre-industrial society?

“It’s a disposable silicon-carbide flash-forged blade, that is nearly diamond hard, transparent, suspended over the user’s skin by a mass-effect field and illuminated with warning lights.”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

Shepard grinned as Hawke rolled her eyes.

“It’s not magic.”

“I know. I’d have noticed if it were. I also have a dwarf with a crossbow that has a cocking ring.”

“Now you have a woman with warning lights. Also, cocking ring? That sounds fucking lewd.”

“Tell me about it. You should have heard the exchange when Choir Boy asked to adjust it.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to cringe, laugh, or confiscate their weapons for sexytimes.”

“You’ll need to point out the ‘Choir Boy’, if we run across him.”

“Oh you’ll know him when you see him. Stereotypical prince in shining armour - I still want to know who enameled it for him....”

“...fucking fairy tale….”

“Fairy tail?”

“No no, just a colloquialism we have for fables.”

“Ah.”

...

“Did that dude just try to stab me?”

“I do indeed think that that...uh, dewed? Tried to stab you. Although to be honest, I think he just stabbed you, no trying involved.”

“Fucking rude.”

“Yes but so is that glowing blade you have stuck through his neck.”

“Bitch had it coming, if accosting ladies is their done thing.”

“ _ I’m _ no fucking lady.”

-

They were just finishing off the last of the Qunari who had attacked them when both women looked up from their kills at the sound of a voice coming from the other side of the street.

“You see, I  _ told _ you she would be fine,  _ now _ can I go back to the Pearl?”

“You would rather pick up another infection, instead of assisting Hawke with attempting to resolve a Qunari invasion?”

Standing there were Varric and Isabela, whom Shepard knew. With them was a man with shocking white hair, that actually looked natural on him, the kind you only saw in movies after enough editing had been done to the image. He had markings of a similar colour run from his chin down his neck and disappear into the collar of a leather outfit that looked like it belonged in a JRPG. Hell, the guy himself looked like he had just jumped out of one, with the handle of a greatsword resting in his hands and the blade cradled against his shoulder.

“Is that a trick question? I mean, yes. Definitely.”

“Broody, why would you expect any different?”

“I would have thought you to have some plausible bribe to make Isabela this altruistic.”

“No, she’s only here because I only had to reach below the table to pull her along.”

“That explains it.”

“I’m clearly not appreciated here so I’ll be-”

Hawke wrapped an arm around Isabela and steered her back towards the group, “Oh Isabela, it means  _ so _ much to me that you’re willing to help me kill all the beefy giants.”

Isabela only rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. I’ll stab the bastards for you.”

Shepard immediately understood what Carver had said about his sister’s knack for just getting her way. It made her like Hawke all that much more as she rubbed at the chip in her armour in mock annoyance, “Well so long as  _ they’re _ the one’s getting stabbed; I think that last one scratched my breastplate.”

“So I see,” the man with white hair stated, tone dry. “I suppose you’re Hawke’s newest friend? The Pirate has been rather loud in her laments of not being allowed to pursue her usual activities in regards to you.”

“I suppose that’s one way of putting it. Name’s Shepard.”

“Fenris.”

“A pleasure, I hope.”

Varric snorted, “That should be something we say to anyone new we meet, Hawke. Considering the rate of betrayal, or just simple stupidity.”

“Yes, though I’m sure that’s how Isabela introduced  _ herself _ .”

“You still haven’t taken me up on that offer Hawke, I promise it’ll be  _ fun _ .”

“Sorry, I’d like to keep  _ my _ ladybits as far away from the nasties you regularly subject yours to.”

“Yes, but Anders has this thing where he-”

“No, I don’t want to know about Anders’ wiggly fingers doing their ‘magic’. There’s that other thing I’m trying to maintain, you know,  _ principles _ ?”

“Oh you’re no fun at all.”

“What can I say? I can only please so many.”

“Hawke!”

“Get over it Rivaini,” Varric interrupted, “Shepard, regardless of how taciturn Broody here might seem, he’s decent enough if you can put up with the anti-magic rants and heart-grabbing.”

“I should be good. Had to put up with a fifty-thousand year old bug constantly calling everyone primitives and suggesting we throw them out the airlock.”

Hawke turned a shrewd gaze on Shepard in a blink. “Fifty?”

“Yep.”

“Hawke,” Varric started, tone wary. “That sounds like it would have been even before that Thaig.”

“No shit. It could have been during the time of Arlathan, or maybe even before. But fuck it, kill cows first, theorise later.”

“Is throwing someone out of a...whatever, a menacing threat, a form of exile?” Fenris asked.

Shepard ran a hand across her face.  _ Shit, I’d need to explain vacuum, and pressure and…well space travel.  _ “Well, I don’t know how common a practice it is as a means of execution, but it is one of the more painful ways to die and I could explain the process in the most  _ wonderful _ detail, but I think Hawke’s right. Place and time.”

“We made it a rule, after Daisy started trying to explain her ideas about spirits and demons to a templar who’d just lost two partners to a particularly nasty Rage,” Varric explained.

“Don’t forget the time Isabela got fucked by the raider captain we were hired to kill while we were busy fighting off his entire crew,” Hawke added.

“It was a distraction!” Isabela argued. “Worked like a charm. Though, next time I’d prefer it if you let me get off, before you- woops, company!”

The pirate nimbly ducked out of the way of a spear, the hurled projectile whistling through the air where her neck had been a moment ago.

Fenris, Hawke and Shepard surged forward, the white-haired man leading the charge. Shepard noticed that the white markings of his skin had begun glowing with a brilliant blue light, almost white. It looked remarkably similar to the glow of biotics.

Isabela was close behind them, staying low so that her form was hidden behind their bulk, a long blade gripped in each hand. Varric had run up a set of stairs leading to the entrance of a house. Using the slight height advantage he began sending bolts at the enemies with the massive crossbow he had always had on himself from when Shepard had first seen him, changing targets to keep them disorientated.  _ The little shit has a magazine-fed autoloading crossbow? The fuck. Why does it suddenly feel like I’m about to run into an eccentric Italian painter with a knack for inventing shit before its time around the next corner? _

Fenris hit the attacking Qunari first. He shouted something in... _ is that Latin? Why isn’t my translator picking it up? _ Before lighting up like a flashbang. Hawke, it seemed, was already familiar with this tactic, her shoulder to Fenris so she could see the enemy, but not him, but still be close enough to pick up what he was doing. Shepard had to turn away quickly, thanking whatever cybernetics Cerberus had used to increase her reflexes so that she would not be blinded. The grey horned assailants were not so fortunate.

Fenris crashed against the one closest, bodily impacting with the diamond shield. Shepard could see the tip of his long blade sticking out from the other side of the giant, dripping blood.  _ Sneaky bastard must have come up from under the shield. _

Hawke continued past him, knocking aside a blade aimed for her with her haft of her glaive and impaling another foe through the throat. She pulled out the blade and swung it around to impact against the floor with the butt. Flames exploded from underneath the one who had attacked her.

Shepard saw at least one Qunari collapse with a feathered quarrel burrowed into its skull and another fall to a knee as its calf was impaled by a dart.  _ Huh, and he’s not too bad of an aim with that thing either. _

She herself had just run at the one next to Fenris’ target and though he easily blocked her slash at his face with his own blade, she had countered by kicking in his knee. To his credit her opponent had not cried out as his leg bent backwards, but he could not disguise the grunt of pain as he tipped. Shepard used the opportunity to knock aside his blade and finish him off.

Fenris moved to his next target, and Hawke with him. Shepard covered their flank. Isabela appeared rolling between two shield-bearing soldiers. Her blades bloodied as both of them toppled over, their stern expressions morphing into something more resembling mild confusion. 

The darker skinned woman was smirking. “Come now, never taken it from behind? Tsk, tsk.”

“Not everyone wants something in every hole, Rivaini!” Varric called over the noise of Fenris, Hawke and Shepard engaging the last few Qunari in the square.

“Oh come on, don’t you have any sense of adventure?!”

“You know how I feel about caves, Isabela.”

Hawke almost lost her arm due to not being able to block a blow on time from laughing at the dwarf’s response.

“Don’t you two have better things to do than make innuendos while killing people?” Fenris asked angrily.

“That depends on how many clothes you’re willing to remove, love.”

Shepard was sure Fenris rolled his eyes, but couldn’t tell due to the Qunari who had slapped aside her sword. And had rammed the haft of his axe into her chest hard enough to send her flying.

She rolled to her feet, winded and disarmed. She ducked around a swing for her head and drove a punch into her opponent’s ribs. Hawke had been right about whatever this warpaint did. It was like punching a turian. Luckily, she was still rewarded with a crack.

She refused to give up her reach advantage; her foe would be able to bring his axe to bear if he managed to get far enough away from her, so instead she moved halfway around him and pulled him back over her leg, sending the muscle-bound  man to the floor. He landed on his hands, already getting back up. She stepped around and struck as hard as she could at where she knew kidneys should be.

The Qunari made a strange groaning noise, but before Shepard could see whether her blow was fatal or not Isabela stepped around the giant’s head and slit his throat, winking at Shepard before she moved to the next one.

Varric was looking at her with a raised brow before slowly clapping three times. “Not bad, not bad. I’d call you Fisty if Broody didn’t already have first dibs on that one.”

“Your attempts at humour startle me into silence, Dwarf.”

“I’m trying to startle you into using a different address for me.”

“You try too hard.”

“You wound me Broody. To the quick.”

“I, for one,” Shepard interrupted, “would show anyone who called me ‘Fisty’, just what, exactly these can do...with warning lights.”

“Ooh, is that a challenge?”

Hawke finished cleaning her blade and walked over, sighing. “Don’t go there Isabela, we don’t know if Shepard likes you enough not to kill you yet. I’ve seen what her ‘warning lights’ can do, and it’s not pretty.”

“You’re going to have to tell me about that when we’re done with this mess, Hawke,” Varric stated archly.

“Pff, yeah right. It’s all bloody Orlesian to me; get  _ her _ to tell you.”

Shepard hummed as she walked over to retrieve her dropped weapon. “I am getting the impression that telling our short friend here anything is a terrible idea.”

“You will most likely end up with a largely fictitious and entirely inaccurate reputation so bloated beyond the truth it takes a few weeks to realise that the rumours are actually about you,” Hawke explained. “Good for business sometimes, but it sometimes kills any chance you have of convincing people that  _ you’re _ the one in the rumours.”

“What? No! I would never do that, I just...add some spice to the stories.”

“Yes, like ‘they’ll be twice as big if I tell anyone about this.’” Fenris drawled.

“Well, they’re  _ dragons! _ ” Varric cried defensively. “They _ have _ to be big.”

“They were dragon _ lings _ , mister weapon-fondler. They’re supposed to be babies,” Hawke said, rapping Varric on the head as she walked past him to the next set of stairs that led to wherever it was they were headed.

“Look at it like this, Varric: when you finally  _ do _ meet a high dragon, you’ll have to inflate that into an entirely fictional proportions for it to still be relevant to your tale,” Isabela reasoned over her shoulder as she followed after Hawke.

“Bah, everyone’s a critic,” the dwarf grumbled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers to Alkeni and thunderscape7 for being the newest commenters! Hep0katti, making days makes mine! The rambles are always appreciated. MaryDragon, yes, but improv! DarkAngelDisuke, all I can say is Soon™ :P CAEK, NO MORE PICTURES LIKE THAT. PLS.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Please leave a comment if you enjoyed this, the more comprehensive the better. If not, please also leave a comment detailing why. I aim to grow.**  
>  ლ,ᔑ•ﺪ͟͠•ᔐ        〆(・∀・＠)  
> 


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